


Talking Heads and Silent Hearts

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depressed Sherlock, Guillian-Barre Syndrome, Hurt Sherlock, M/M, Major Illness, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Near Death, POV John Watson, Parental Mrs. Hudson, Physical Disability, Seb gets his comeuppance, Suicidal Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Wedding, soft john, traumatic past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-11-13 10:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11183097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: Sherlock and John have always felt it was "us against the universe", but, this time,the universe has thrown something at them SO BIG  that it will challenge their preconceptions and rock their world to its foundation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work might not have seen the light of day if not for the support of Swissmissing.tumblr.com and jbaillier.tumblr.com. Thanks, guys, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Some aspects of Sherlock's history can be found in previous works of mine, especially "What the Landlady Found Outside Her Back Door."

_Whirrr *click* shhhhh…._

 

_Whirrr *click* shhhhh…._

He stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb as though he had lost all sense of balance and center. His eyes never left the recumbent figure on the bed, which looked so uncharacteristically small and shrunken, despite its height. Starched white sheets and soft thermal blankets were laid over the patient with precision, undisturbed by any movement. Machines crowded around the bed, performing their respective duties without intervention or malfunction.

 

 _Thank God for that_ , the man thought, grimly. Some of the equipment, like the IV perfusion pump and the cardiac monitors, were not essential to the patient’s _immediate_ survival, but the rhythmic sound of the respirator haunted him. Each cycle was another breath, another few seconds of life for his dearest friend, now lying helpless in the Intensive Care unit of St. Barts, the victim of the most unexpected of nemeses.

 

 _How the hell did this happen_ …?

 

>>>***<<<

 

“John, why do you have to go to that ridiculous convention?” Sherlock whinged petulantly from his comfortable position, propped up with his back against John’s left side on the couch. John was squinched into the corner with one arm draped loosely around Sherlock’s shoulders and the other holding some papers he’d been trying desperately to read for the last hour.

 

Dark blue eyes rolled heavenward in a mixture of fond amusement and long-suffering patience. “We’ve been over this before, Sherlock. Because I’ve been _specifically_ invited…”

 

“First time for everything,” Sherlock snarked as he squirmed in closer and pulled John’s arm tighter around his chest.

 

“To give a speech on the synthesis of medicine and law enforcement…”

 

“A selection of puerile anecdotes from your blog entries…John, they’re using you as filler for their otherwise-tedious schedule. You _must_ see that.”

 

John sighed, loudly and exaggeratedly. “Sherlock…this is a great opportunity for me. Please try to see that. For once,” he pled, despite his certainty that his entreaties would fall on deaf ears.

 

Sherlock humphed and rubbed his head against John’s shoulder like a cat. “Jo-o-hn,” he purred, “Wouldn’t you rather stay _here_ for the week instead? The next “Storm of the Century” is supposed to hit us in two days…”

 

John sighed even louder. “Which is why I have to leave early tomorrow. Besides, Edinburgh isn’t the end of the Earth. Not like I’m going to be stranded forever in the Arctic wilderness.”

 

Twisting his head around slightly, Sherlock coaxed his friend, “Please stay, John. We could build a nice warm fire, send out for curry, eat together, and…”

 

“No, no, and no, Sherlock,” John rebuked him. He rested the papers he’d been holding on the arm of the couch and used his newly-freed-up hand to rumple Sherlock’s thick hair. Sherlock practically melted. “Mmm, such sensitive follicles you have, my dear…”

 

Sherlock hummed assent, settling in for the long haul. His eyes closed as a slow smile touched his lips and he sighed blissfully just before…

 

“Dammit,” he cursed, uncharacteristically, in his melodious baritone.

 

“What?” John asked, concerned. This did not bode well.

 

Rather than answer his question directly, Sherlock asked, “How long have we been together now, John?”  his voice sounding suspiciously blasé.

 

John shrugged as best he could with an armload of Sherlock. “I dunno, a couple of weeks?”

 

“A month, John. Almost thirty days,” the detective observed, matter-of-factly.

 

“O-o-ka-ay…so-o-o…” Suspicious.

 

“SO WHY HAVEN’T YOU TAKEN CARE OF _THIS_ YET?” he bellowed as he gestured sharply down his recumbent body with both hands to where his pyjama bottoms resembled a circus tent.

 

John splurted laughter at Sherlock’s outburst.

 

“Not funny,” the detective sulked. He crossed his arms over his chest after pulling his robe across to unsuccessfully hide his already-obvious erection.

 

Still laughing, John kissed the back of Sherlock’s head where the dark hair whorled, then tightened both his arms around him. “We’ve discussed this, Sherlock.”

 

“ _You’ve_ discussed it. _I’ve_ protested.”

 

John dropped his head in laughter, helpless in the face of Sherlock’s argument. “Yes, true, I’ve asked you to wait because I wanted to let things calm down, become a bit more…normalized…”

 

“Define ‘normal’ around here,” Sherlock muttered. “I dare you.”

 

_He **does** have a point…_

 

 “All right, ‘calmer’ might be a better word.”

 

“I’m perfectly calm,” Sherlock retorted with a sniff. John rolled his eyes again and shook his head at the obstinancy of the man. Sometimes, Sherlock could be absolutely impossible to argue with.

 

“Yes, I can see that. _However_ , we agreed to take it slow…”

 

“You twisted my arm…”

 

John’s nose wrinkled. “Okay, you’ve got me, I _did_ talk you into waiting for a while until I felt comfortable with moving on from my time with Mary…”

 

“Which you wouldn’t have had to do if you hadn’t _married her in the first place_ …”

 

“SHERLOCK!” Shocked and angry.

 

“WELL, IT’S TRUE!” Defensively.

 

Silence rolled over the two like a thick, toxic fog. Sherlock sulked, snuffling occasionally. John’s face underwent several changes in expression, none of them particularly good, until…

 

“You’re right,” he gusted, defeated. “I shouldn’t have married her. I knew it felt wrong at the time…”

 

“You didn’t trust _me_ anymore, didn’t even give me a chance,” Sherlock moped. “Yet you trusted an assassin who faked her pregnancy…”

 

“All right, ALL RIGHT, enough of this, Sherlock!” John finally snapped. He unwrapped his arms from around Sherlock’s neck and crossed them defiantly. Sherlock, surprised at the sudden lack of support, slid down John’s side and landed with his head in John’s lap, eyes wide with surprise.

 

“Well, this is new. Why haven’t we done this before?” he asked blinking up at John. “It’s…rather nice.”

 

John looked away in a huff. “Afraid you’d get the wrong idea.”

 

Sherlock turned his head to the side and found himself looking squarely at the fly of John’s trousers. ‘Hmmm. Getting some now…”

 

“RIGHT! We’re done here!” John started up, almost knocking Sherlock onto the floor in his rush to vacate his seat. Sherlock squawked indignantly.

 

“John! Stop that! Get back here!” Sherlock made a grab for John and caught the tail of his shirt, tugging him back toward the couch. “Please, John,” he added apologetically, the about-face in his attitude almost neck-wrenching. “I know I can be a bit of a prat…”

 

John took a deep breath and clenched his left hand before turning. Sherlock looked up at him, his face open and pleading, his eyes suddenly reddened.

 

“Sherlock, I’ve tried to explain to you that being married to Mary _did_ things to me, to my… sense of self, my confidence, if you will. I need some time to re-orient myself without facing any new questions or…insecurities between us.” He sighed, longingly. “If only we could have returned to life the way it was before…”

 

“St. Barts,” Sherlock murmured, completing John’s sentence. _He’s been doing a lot of that lately_.

 

Sherlock sat up unsteadily, releasing John’s shirttail. “I know, and I am so grievously sorry for that, John. If I’d had _any_ notion of how you felt, maybe…” He dropped his eyes and shook his head, which set his curls to bobbing. “I don’t know, I guess…I’ve never been… _that important_ to anyone before. I never thought you would react _so badly_ , be _so damaged_ , by my actions. I truly believed I could take out Moriarty’s organization and return home and we could live our lives again without that Sword of Damocles hanging over our heads. I understand _now_ what an incredible breach of trust that was.”

 

John’s eyes lowered as he nodded in accord. Losing Sherlock had been a complete and utter shock from which he had never truly recovered. Even Mary, as much as he’d cared for her at the time, had only ever been a stand-in for Sherlock. Losing her---whilst almost losing _him_ because of _her_ actions—had totally pulled the rug out from under his version of reality.

 

Sherlock started to rise and reach out again, saying, “John…” before an unexpected sneeze shoved him back onto his arse. John grinned despite himself. Sherlock snuffled, then sneezed again, rubbing his nose in annoyance.

 

“That’s another reason we haven’t done anything,” John pointed out. “That cold has been going on for a week now and it’s not getting any better. I’ve been taking _supplements_ to avoid getting it from you and having to cancel my speaking engagement.”

 

“A cold,” Sherlock mumbled. He looked up in disbelief. “That’s what’s been keeping you from…”

 

“God, you don’t listen, do you?” John threw up his hands. “That’s _one_ reason, you incredible berk, and not even the most important one!”

 

Sherlock toppled and fell over onto his side, his head landing where John’s bum had been a few minutes before, his long legs drawn up to his stomach. He looked miserable. “I actually don’t feel so good,” he murmured pitifully. “So tired, all of a sudden.”

 

“All right, you, budge over,” John said, feeling suddenly sorry for the man. Sherlock sat up so his friend could slide back into his former place and allow Sherlock to rest his head in John’s lap. Sherlock nestled in while John pulled a nearby coverlet over Sherlock’s shoulders and back before resting his arm across his body. “There’s a good lad. No wonder you’ve been so grumpy lately. Now, you’ll need a lot of rest while I’m gone, you hear me? I’ve left instructions with Mrs. Hudson on your care and feeding. Do _not_ give her a hard time, ‘K?”

 

“’K,” he mumbled, burrowing his head into John’s lap. “’S nice here. Gotta do this more often.” He rolled his head to the side and, looking up into John’s face, murmured, “I think I’ve proven myself by now, haven’t I? John?”

 

John smiled softly as he stroked Sherlock’s hair again. “Yeah. Yeah, you have, Sherlock. I trust you with my life and more, you know that.”

 

Sherlock smiled back, a tiny, sickly, stuffy-nosed smile. “Good,” he said. “Then, promise me…”

 

John’s smile turned into a smirk as he could see what was coming. “Ye-e-es?”

 

Snuffle. “After the conference…”

 

John chuckled. “Yeah, Sherlock, after the conference, I’ll seriously consider arranging for the de-flowering of one Sherlock Holmes, Insufferable Virgin.”

 

Sherlock snorted laughter before he closed his eyes and slid off to sleep. John ruffled his hair tenderly.

 

“Silly git. Maybe, after the conference, I’ll have something very important to tell you…Maybe.”

 

>>>***<<<

 

“It’s still early days yet,” a familiar voice said from behind him. John turned to see a tall, professionally-dressed man approach him, bearing the omnipresent umbrella. He pulled his shoulders away from the wall to face him.

 

“Mycroft,” John nodded in greeting.

 

John wasn’t any Sherlock Holmes, but even he could see how drawn and worried Sherlock’s older brother was. He may have been the “British Government”, but, right now, he was as much of spectator as John was. Even more so, since John was a doctor and could easily decipher the medicalese scribblings he’d found in Sherlock’s chart. Mycroft stared at the silent form in the bed with a frozen expression, but John could just about see the tiniest trembling of a lower lip as the man strove to conceal his feelings.

 

 _Conceal, don’t feel_ …the words of a child’s movie came into John’s head, unbidden. Mycroft had tried to teach Sherlock that lesson, as a child, but it never truly “took”. Sherlock had always had a huge heart and was a veritable font of feelings, carefully overlaid with panels of marble to keep the world’s pain at bay. Only recently had John gotten a real look at the unvarnished Sherlock, and, he had to admit, he was thoroughly smitten.

 

But, now…here lay Sherlock, in this hospital bed—paralyzed, blind, unconscious, unable to breathe without assistance. If his condition worsened, if his heart were to stop…the thought brought the taste of bile to the back of his throat, which he had to choke back down.

 

_No, don’t think that, don’t go there…not now, God, not now…_

 

“What tests have they performed, Doctor?” Mycroft inquired, his voice well- modulated by efforts of his indomitable will, forged by the day-to-day obfuscations of his moods and emotions required to carry out  his job. “I must admit, I don’t really understand what the physicians are talking about.” He smiled cheerlessly. “Not really my specialty, you know.”

 

John nodded. “Yeah, you concentrate on keeping the country out of trouble and I’ll try and keep Sherlock out of trouble. We each have our areas,” he quipped, without any real humor.

 

Mycroft smirked fleetingly. “Nothing you could have done about this, unfortunately.”

 

John gave Mycroft a sharp look, but there was no venom in the words or condemnation in the tone. He was simply stating fact. “True. The doctors have been testing him for all common diseases, drug overdoses, allergic reactions…the whole gamut. So far, the tests are coming up negative, across the board.”

 

Mycroft frowned. “Drugs? Has he fallen back, do you think?”

 

John shook his head vigorously. “No. I haven’t seen him doing anything, haven’t found anything, and, what’s even more important, he’s been _happy_ lately. Sherlock never does drugs when he’s happy or on a case.”

 

An uncharacteristically gentle smile touched Mycroft’s lips. “Yes, I believe we have _you_ to thank for that, John.” The use of his first name surprised John. Mycroft was seldom given to sentimental displays or words. “Sherlock has been much more bearable than usual because of the progress of your relationship with him. Perhaps we’ll get that “happy event” one day, after all.”

 

“If he survives,” John stated, flatly. Mycroft’s face dropped.


	2. Chapter 2

The weather the next day was beastly. The storm had sped up in its course and roiled into London a day early. Sheeting rain, combined with hail, made going outside both unpleasant and treacherous.

 

John had, fortunately, had packed up the day before and was ready to go before the big front actually hit the city. After a quick breakfast and a cup of coffee, he had peeked in on Sherlock, whom he had heard coughing and sneezing the night before all the way upstairs. The cold seemed to have taken a turn for the worse overnight and Sherlock was completely knackered. John bent down to give him a kiss and noticed the heat rolling off his face.

 

“I’m telling Mrs. Hudson to give you some paracetamol when you get up, hear? And I don’t want her calling me saying you won’t eat. I’ll tell Lestrade to withhold all cases if you don’t follow the regimen, Sherlock!”

 

Something indecipherable rumbled from beneath the covers, sounding vaguely like Sherlock’s voice but scratchy and cracked. John rumpled his hair and patted his hip before leaving.

 

>>>***<<<

 

John’s trip to Edinburgh was uneventful, even though the abominable weather had apparently taken over the countryside. It was nearly impossible to see out the windows due to the combination of frozen rain and snow that had started pounding the train as it pulled out, trundling through white-smothered small towns and fields on its way north to Scotland.

 

During the ride, John occupied himself with reviewing his notes and practicing his delivery. He had never before been asked to speak at the conference, despite the many years he and Sherlock had been partners, so he didn’t want to bugger this opportunity. Upon occasion, he wondered how Sherlock was faring and if he’d been giving Mrs. Hudson a hard time.

 

He smirked at the thought of a battle of wills between Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and Terror of Scotland Yard, and Mrs. Hudson, she of the iron will, who had managed to kidnap a drugged-up Sherlock, secure him in the boot of her sportscar, and take him to where John had been meeting with his therapist, all so she could procure John’s help for the out-of-control detective.

 

Personally, he laid all his bets on Mrs. Hudson, who would have no trouble calling in Mycroft for assistance, if need be. John chuckled. Three forces of nature pitted against each other in one gigantic row. Now, _that_ would be worth seeing. There might even be footage, if Mycroft’s cameras were still in place…and if the flat survived the combined released energies of two Irresistible Forces against one Immovable Object.

 

Getting to the hotel was a bit tricky in the foul weather, but John managed to arrive and get settled in his room before the major snow squalls hit the city, just so he could meet with some old colleagues for dinner. They spent the rest of the evening reminiscing about old times at St. Barts, the war, problems with the NHS, and all manner of general catching-up. By the time John got back to his room, he was more than a bit pissed and ready for bed.

 

He checked his phone. There was a text message from Mrs. Hudson.

 

            >Sherlock sleeping most of day. Barely ate but drank some broth. All quiet here. Mrs. H.<

 

_Bless her._

 

John smiled and turned his mobile to standby. He knew Sherlock was in good hands, so a restful night’s sleep was actually doable. He cleaned up a bit before practically diving into the pristine white sheets and comforter and snuggling into soft, yummy pillows. He was out like a light.

 

>>>***<<<

 

John woke as a huge gust of wind rattled the windows in his neat little room. He looked around blearily until he noticed the clock next to his bed was blinking _4:00 AM_.

 

_That doesn’t make any sense. It’s full daylight out. Must have had a power outage last night, I reckon._

 

He stretched widely, then staggered out of bed and over to the coffee pot by the bathroom. Nice little touch, that. While he freshened up for the day in the half-light cast by the open drapes, he wondered how Sherlock was doing yet again. A check of his mobile revealed _no signal_ , probably due to the intense storm that raged outside.

 

John shrugged. At least Sherlock was at home in his nice, comfortable bed with an ever-attentive Mrs. Hudson. She would take care of him like a mother; indeed, she had from the start, when she had found him unconscious outside her kitchen window, sprawled in her bins after a drug bender. She had taken him in, fed him, given him clothes and a place to stay. He had repaid her by ensuring that her larcenous drunk of a husband received the death penalty for the death of her two sons in Florida. Sherlock became the son she had not birthed but never lost.

 

After downing a cup of mediocre coffee, John headed out of his room into a hallway lit only by emergency lights. The back-up generator was laboring in the storm, so John avoided the elevator and took to the dimly-lit stairs. It was treacherous going and made John wonder if, perhaps, Sherlock had been right about this. Maybe he should have just stayed home and taken care of his patient as only _he_ could.

 

Down in the lobby, the members of the convention milled around, talking, joking, and, more-than-occasionally, drinking. The hotel had set up the bar with breakfast cocktails to keep the clientele happy until they could make new arrangements for the seminars, which were scheduled to be held in rooms with no outside windows for light. John decided to join in on the fun with a mimosa and a cherry croissant, both of which were superb and lightened his mood significantly.

 

He checked his mobile. Still no call or text, still _no signal_. He pocketed the device with a scowl. He wasn’t used to being incommunicado like this, particularly when he had a sick patient. His practice was being overseen by a colleague, but Sherlock was not considered a part of that group. He was Doctor John Watson’s private patient and John would be damned if he’d let anyone else lay a finger on him.

 

After a few hours, rooms had been arranged so that the conference could continue. It was a much more jocular atmosphere than would have been expected due to the efforts by the hotel to mollify their guests with booze. John chose an interesting seminar and settled in for one of the more interesting debates he’d ever heard, mainly because it was interspersed with bad jokes, speakers stumbling over words, and the moderator falling asleep mid-way through.

 

Still no text. Still _no signal_.

 

John felt strangely discomfited by this. The longer he heard nothing, the more he worried. He thought he’d finally come to understand how Sherlock affected him, but he was finding the thought of not knowing how he was doing intolerable.

 

He left the seminar to find a hotel phone. Maybe the hard-lines were still working.

 

>>>***<<<

 

“How is he, John? He looks cold, poor dear,” Mrs. Hudson fretted. She stood beside Sherlock’s bedside, arranging and re-arranging the sheets on the bed, fixing the pillows and smoothing the pillowcases over and over until John took her wrists and held them gently. He looked into her eyes and she burst into tears. “My poor boy!” she wailed. “How could this have happened to him?” She attempted to wring her hands but they were still caught up in John’s. “I did my best…”

 

“Shh, shh, I’m sure you did, Mrs. Hudson, I’m sure you did,” John soothed. He jerked his head toward Sherlock. “This is not your fault. In fact, if not for you, he might have lain there on the floor and died of asphyxiation when he finally stopped breathing. You got him to the hospital, Mrs. Hudson. Good for you, luv,” he finished, before kissing her on the forehead.

 

She turned her red, brimming eyes to Mycroft, who stood uncomfortably in the corner, leaning on his umbrella. “You,” she said, accusingly, “don’t you feel anything? This is your baby brother lying here and you’re just…” She burst into tears again and was led to a chair by John, who knelt before her and spoke quietly to her for a few minutes until she could calm herself. Then, he rose and crossed the room to address Mycroft.

 

“Don’t take what she says too much to heart, Mycroft,” John started before he saw Mycroft’s wan smile.

 

“Everyone assumes, John, but no one knows. I have spent my life worrying about Sherlock. Ever since Eurus’ madness caused her to kill small animals and attempt to murder our entire family by burning down the house, I’ve worried about him. I’ve often wondered what, exactly, sent him hurtling headlong into drug use: death, insanity, homosexuality, isolation, rejection…or all of them,” he said, before noticing John’s surprised expression. “Yes, John, I’ve always known that Sherlock is gay. He wasn’t very good at hiding his attraction to young boys as a youngster; he never showed any interest in girls at all. I think he might have been found out by his peers at uni, or even earlier, and was made to suffer for it. He never said a word about it, but I could see how he isolated himself. I taught him how to manage his emotions, to close himself away and focus on the logical, the rational, not the emotional.” He gusted a sigh as he looked over at the bed, his eyes betraying his sadness and worry. “I had hoped to spare him the hurt that the world has done to him. He was always a bit… _fragile_ because of the size of his heart.”

 

He looked down at John. “When you first met him, he had just recovered from a drug rehabilitation stint, paid for by me, at the best rehabilitation facility in London, a few years earlier. His life had turned around somewhat when he met Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade and found his true calling as a detective.” He smirked. “I offered him work at MI6, which he accepted on a trial basis, but he couldn’t function within the confines of the agency, what with its… _peculiar_ requirements, so we had to let him go. Working with Scotland Yard has made him the closest thing to happy I’ve seen in many a year. Then, you appeared on the scene, and I had a new worry.”

 

John looked shocked and pointed to himself. “Me? For God’s sake, why? I was just looking for a flatmate.”

 

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, so you said, but I could see something awaken in Sherlock when he was with you. There was… _life_ in his eyes again. There was mischief, even, just like when he had been a boy. You brought that out of him, John, and I was concerned that you could either make him a better person or make him even worse than he was before. You had your own demons, Captain Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Those demons could, so easily, have affected my very impressionable brother. You _do_ know he has a ‘thing’ for military men, don’t you?”

 

“What? Sherlock? No, he never…” he stopped, remembering the case of the soldier who believed he was being stalked. Sherlock had chosen _that case_ out of several others. “That little devil…so _that’s_ why he was so nice to me at the flat…”

 

“One reason among many, I’m sure,” Mycroft smiled, almost impishly. “You _know_ Sherlock can see below the surface of any person or situation rather easily, as long as it doesn’t have to do with emotion.”

 

John smiled lop-sidedly. Leave it to Sherlock to omit something like that.

 

“Boys! Boys, I think…I think I saw his eyelids flutter!” Mrs Hudson cried out, before rushing to the side of the bed and leaning in to look again. “Yes! Yes, I think he might be coming to!” she crowed, excitedly.

 

Both John and Mycroft ran over, each one taking a different side. John used his thumb to gently open one of Sherlock’s eyelids and peer inside. The eye didn’t move. He blew gently against the cornea and the lid fluttered, attempting to close against the unpleasant stimulus. “No, I think he’s still unconscious, just at a higher level than he was. He’ll probably fluctuate, just like one would during sleep, so he’ll be more responsive sometimes than others.” He released the eyelid, which promptly closed.

 

“Oh, _dammit_ ,” Mrs. Hudson sputtered. John and Mycroft stared at her in surprise. “What? I’m frustrated, and I’ll say whatever I bloody well please when my poor Sherlock is lying here like this!” She turned and sat back down in her chair, the very picture of huffy propriety. John chuckled to himself.

 

“The first time I met her, she beat me near senseless with her purse,” Mycroft said, sotto voce.

 

“And you deserved it, too, Mycroft Holmes! Scaring me half to death like that…” she snapped at him. John dropped his head to hide his laughter. He turned his face toward Sherlock’s and ran his hand across his friend’s forehead and into his shock of curly hair. He pulled slightly.

 

Nothing. John’s smile melted away.

 

_Whirrr *click* shhhhh…._

 

_Whirrr *click* shhhhh…._


	3. Chapter 3

The phone was dead.

 

John was not pleased one bit.

 

The concierge told him that many of the lines between Edinburgh and the outside world had frozen over and broken the night before, but reassured him that the local electric company was working on the problem and, hopefully, would have communications restored by later that day. In the meantime, he offered John some more cocktails and croissants to take some of the sting out of waiting. John accepted the generous offer and returned to the seminar.

 

Still, his mind was almost completely preoccupied by his thoughts about Sherlock and how he and Mrs. Hudson might be faring in this wretched weather. Even the half-sotted antics of his peers couldn’t improve his mood.

 

It wasn’t until a day later that any sort of communication was possible. Some of the major trunk lines had been repaired by dedicated, and frostbitten, repairmen, enabling the attendees to finally make contact with their loved ones and businesses. The mobiles were still useless due to the abnormally thick cloud cover, which fatally diffused their signals.

 

John had been standing in a line, awaiting his turn at the land line, when a brief pulse of his mobile caught his attention. It had registered a single text, probably received through a hole in the stalled blizzard. He whipped out his mobile and read it.

 

>Come at once. Sherlock has taken a turn. Mrs. H.<

 

_Shit! Shit shit shit shit…I shouldn’t have left, I should have taken better care of him, he never takes proper care of himself when I’m not there…_

 

He ran back to his room and began throwing things into his bag when there came a knock on the door. When he opened it, a tall man in a dark suit with an earpiece was standing there with a deadly-serious mien.

 

“Are you Doctor John Watson?”

 

“Yes, yes I am. And you are…?”

 

“To escort you back to London, sir, by the fastest means possible,” he replied, handing John a white envelope with the seal of the British Government on it.

 

John ripped it open impatiently. It read:

 

            Dr John Watson,

Please return to London immediately. Our common associate has suffered a dramatic setback and requires your presence. He is currently in Barts ICU.

MH

 

His hands shook as he read and reread the note. _Sherlock_. Sherlock was in Intensive Care…

 

_But it was only a cold._

 

Well, obviously not.

>>>***<<<

 

The doctor in charge of Sherlock’s care was an arrogant prat.

 

He adjusted his glasses as he perused Sherlock’s chart in full view of everyone in the room, yet engaged no one. Mrs. Hudson’s gaze switched rapidly between the doctor and the patient, the effort of keeping her peace evident on her face. The longer he took, the more annoyed her expression became.

 

Mycroft, on the other hand, stood directly behind him, reading over his shoulder, even though he had previously admitted that he could make no sense of the jargon being used in the notes. John knew it was just an intimidation factor. Mycroft would be damned if he’d allow himself to be treated like a mere _visitor._ The doctor edged away and Mycroft stepped in. This happened several times, much to the annoyance of the doctor and the amusement of everyone else in the room.

 

John remained standing by the head of Sherlock’s bed, where he had stood for the last several hours, at _least_. His hand rested on Sherlock’s hair, a tangible connection that, he hoped, Sherlock would draw comfort from. The detective’s chest rose and fell predictably, regulated by the tireless machine against the wall that pumped humidified oxygen into his tracheostomy, keeping his body and brain alive one breath more.

 

“Well, doctor? Your verdict?” Mycroft suggested in a cause-no-offense-but-take-no-shit tone of voice. He was practically standing in the doctor’s back pocket by this time. The doctor looked up at him in annoyance.

 

“Well, we still have no solid cause for the patient’s…”

 

“My _brother’s_ ,” Mycroft corrected.

 

The doctor nervously re-adjusted his glasses and resumed, “Your _brother’s_ condition. All he had was a simple cold that took an unexpected course. We have no evidence for pneumonia, Epstein-Barr,…”

 

“Barr,” John echoed. “Wait a minute.” He thumbed his mobile on and quickly typed in a key word, waiting anxiously for the search to be completed, then selecting a link as the doctor continued as if he had never been interrupted.

 

“Myesthenia gravis, spinal cord lesions, rapid-onset MS or lupus…”

 

“It’s never lupus, that’s what Dr. House always says,” Mrs Hudson whispered to John, who smiled absently at the reference as he read.

 

“Here it is!” John cried out, victoriously. He came over to where the doctor and Mycroft were standing and practically shoved the mobile in the doctor’s face. “Guillain-Barre Syndrome. I learned about it at the last…”

 

“I don’t need any backseat drivers, if you don’t mind,” the doctor huffed officiously as he pushed the mobile away. Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted in anticipation of John’s response.

 

“…medical conference I attended, a few days ago. Perhaps you didn’t get a chance to speak there, as I did,” John continued. The doctor paled. “I’m Dr. John Watson, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and, as such, I’m sure my medical knowledge and experience _do_ count for _something_ , don’t you think, Doctor…?” he leaned in to read the name badge. The doctor quickly covered it self-consciously with his clipboard as he cleared his throat.

 

“Yes, yes, I suppose it does, **Dr**. Watson,” the man hemmed and hawed, looking as though the room had suddenly become far too small for comfort. “Er, if I could see that page again…”

 

John held the mobile in front of himself and started reading aloud from it. Mycroft snickered and Mrs. Hudson giggled to herself as John launched into a dramatic presentation of the information contained therein. When he was finished, he looked at the doctor with an innocently-expectant expression. “Well, doctor?”

 

The doctor was obviously uncomfortable being in the passenger seat during the diagnostic process. He started to sweat, despite the coolness of the room. “Uh, yes, that could, uh, could be what we have, uh…I’ll order the required tests immediately!” he mumbled as he swung around Mycroft’s imposing form and scuttled out of the room and to the relative safety of the nurse’s station.

 

A couple of nurses had paused outside the door during this meeting and, as the doctor bustled past them, they giggled and gave John a thumbs-up before returning to their duties. Seems John wasn’t the only one who was not a fan of the self-important physician.

 

“Guillain-Barre, Doctor,” Mycroft stated, almost savoring the word. “You believe that is what we’re dealing with here?”

 

John nodded vigorously. “I’m almost certain of it. It fits the pattern _and_ the symptomology. Also, if that’s the case, there really was _nothing_ you could have done, Mrs. Hudson. This was pure happenstance.”

 

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes heavenward as she clapped her hands. “Oh, thank heavens! I was so frightened I had missed something!”

 

“Not at all, Mrs. Hudson. You were the best thing that could have happened to him at the time!” Mycroft “enthused”.

 

John spared the tall man a sideways glance. Unusual for Mycroft to be so unstinting in praise. Maybe this was a sign there was a human being inside that starched suit after all.

 

>>>***<<<

 

John hadn’t been sure what to expect, but a luxury humvee was probably not at the top of the list. He clambered into the almost-stiflingly-warm interior after running through falling icicles and the sleet/snow combination that was still pelting the city at intervals. He had the car to himself, save for the security officer and the driver, who had to be one of the foremost racecar drivers of all time and, possibly, even military, considering the way he handled his vehicle. John felt like he was in the midst of a war zone again—a strangely comforting feeling—as the car slipped and slid and drove at sometimes reckless speeds down the mostly empty motorways headed toward London.

 

Once they were en route, the security man handed John a car phone. John frowned at it. Unlikely it would have any better reception than his own mobile…

 

“Doctor Watson?” he heard a tinny voice sounding like something coming from a can phone set he’d made as a kid. He held it to his ear. The security agent crossed his arms and looked out the window.

 

“John Watson here.”

 

“Ah, Doctor Watson, good to speak with you again,” a familiar voice said. John immediately recognized it as Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s older brother and representative of the British Government.

 

John was astounded. “How…”

 

Mycroft chuckled dryly, like a snake. “How, you ask? Really, Dr. Watson, you should know the answer to that one already. I have resources at my disposal that can do truly remarkable things…except for this time,” he finished, his tone of voice changing to serious in an instant.

 

“What happened to Sherlock? You wouldn’t have come for me for anything less.”

 

“True. I’m afraid Sherlock is currently very sick, indeed.”

 

John nodded. “St. Barts, I know. I got your note. What happened?”

 

Mycroft cleared his throat. This was going to take a while. “I received a call from Mrs. Hudson, who told me Sherlock had been wandering around the flat bumping into things and falling, _seeming_ to be incoherent. She thought he might have taken some recreational drugs, even though it was not a ‘danger day’, so she called me from her downstairs phone. While we were speaking, she heard a loud thud and raced upstairs to check on him. He had fallen and was trying, unsuccessfully, to get up. Kept yelling that he couldn’t see. She tried to help him up, but he was too weak and uncoordinated to manage. She used his mobile to call me again, at which time, he started complaining about having trouble breathing. Thank God she took him seriously and called for an ambulance. He lapsed into unconsciousness and ceased breathing entirely en route to hospital. The medics may have saved his life, but Mrs. Hudson is the _real_ heroine today.”

 

John’s brow furrowed. “How long had this been going on, this behavior?”

 

“Only about a day or so. It had an incredibly fast onset. He had tried to eat something but was having trouble swallowing, so Mrs. Hudson stuck to soup. He had stayed in bed most of the time, sleeping,” Mycroft clarified, little cracks in his voice betraying his emotions.

 

“Well, we should be back in a couple of hours, if your driver has anything to say about it.”

 

Mycroft’s tone was smug. “One of our best. We stole him away from the military for our own purposes. You can do that when you’re the British Government. Good bye, Doctor.”

 

_> click<_

 

 John set the phone back in its recess. The agent still looked out the window.

 

“Yeah, but even the British Government may not be able to save his own brother’s life. There’s that,” he added, morosely.


	4. Chapter 4

“It’s definite, then,” John clarified. “It really _is_ Guillain-Barre.”

 

The doctor nodded, casting nervous glances over his shoulder at the towering, glowering presence of the British Government. He readjusted his glasses. “Uh, yes, yes, it is. Peripheral Polyneuritis following a pre-existing illness—in this case, rhinopharyngitis.”

 

Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue. “Do you make up these words or do you hire someone to do it?” she asked, tartly. She had obviously had quite enough of the doctor’s attitude.

 

The doctor shot her a look that was something less than patient, but was then distracted by the menacing presence of the patient’s brother, who tapped the ferrule of his umbrella impatiently on the floor.

 

“So, doctor, what can be done about it?” Mycroft asked, seemingly patiently but John could just detect the underlying emotions ready to spill out all over the physician like lava. He wagered the doctor could feel them, too. He edged away.

 

“Er, ah, nothing…” he started, but, upon seeing Mycroft’s eyes widen and eyebrows shoot up, combined with the flat-lining of lips, he hurriedly moved on. “You see, Mr…” he consulted the chart, “Holmes, there is nothing that _can_ be done. We don’t know very much about this ailment. It pretty much has to run its course…”

 

_> clack<_ The ferrule hit the tiles emphatically.

 

“Run…its…course…” Mycroft hissed. He stepped in closer and the doctor lowered his eyes in submission. “My brother is paralyzed, blind, and on a ventilator, and you suggest…”

 

“Mycroft,” John also stepped up, feeling a sudden need to defend the doctor. “It’s true. There _is_ no real treatment. The condition is usually self-limiting, disappearing as mysteriously as it first appeared. This is a waiting game now.”

 

The doctor, having regained a bit of his cockiness during the intervention, moved around Mycroft and headed out the door. There, he stopped, and shot back, “He may need to find a new field of endeavor, however. One can’t be a detective if one is blind and paralyzed…” he snarked before he dashed out the door in response to Mycroft’s threatening move in his direction.

 

Once he was gone, Mycroft turned to John and asked, almost pleaded, “Please tell me he’s wrong, John. Sherlock…”

 

John nodded. “I know. It would kill him to stop being Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. That’s such a big part of his life.”

 

Mycroft’s face softened uncharacteristically. “So are you, John. I fear he will not seek solace from _me_. Such is _not_ the status of our relationship.”

 

John nodded again. He knew _that_ to be true. The Holmes brothers were not exactly close, but they _were_ family. He abruptly changed the subject; a sentimental Mycroft was _not_ something he thought he could deal with at this point. “I can suggest that we try immunoglobulin therapy. It’s been known to help by limiting the amount of inflammation in the early stages.”

 

Mycroft nodded. “I trust _your_ judgement, _Doctor Watson_ , far more than I trust _his_.” He jerked his head after the retreated physician. “Do your magic.”

 

“Yes, please do,” Mrs. Hudson piped up from her position next to the bed. She couldn’t bear to see “her boy” in such a state.

 

“I will, Mrs. Hudson,” John smiled at her. “We’ll get him over this, I promise.”

 

She smiled wanly up at him. John swallowed nervously. The next few weeks were going to be difficult.

 

>>>***<<<

“He’s awake.”

 

John rushed back into Sherlock’s room from the small common room at the end of the hall, where he had gone to get a very bad cup of coffee. He didn’t even finish it, just tossed it into the bin as he sprinted down the hall at the sound of Mycroft’s voice. He entered the now-familiar room, with its ever-present mechanical sounds, to behold Sherlock, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, his face a mask of horror.

 

“Sherlock? How are you?” John said, concern rising in his voice.

 

Sherlock’s head flopped to one side, a nearly uncontrolled movement, as his eyes sought out his flatemate’s voice. The full lips attempted to speak, but, instead, made uncoordinated movements that produced no sound, thanks to the tracheostomy which rendered his vocal cords useless. John flew to the bedside and rested his hand on Sherlock’s forehead.

 

“I’m here, Sherlock. I’m here,” he whispered. The ailing detective’s eyes closed and his face calmed in relief. His lips formed one word.

 

_John_.

>>>***<<<

 

John was more Sherlock’s doctor than Sherlock’s doctor. In fact , they locked horns quite often, especially when the doctor refused to order pain medicine for Sherlock, despite his elevated blood pressure and frequent grimacing.

 

“Guillain-Barre can be extremely painful, you know that!” John yelled in the doctor’s face. “I’m prescribing it!”

 

“No, you are not!” the doctor shot back. “He is my patient, and I will decide what’s best for him! I will not have him becoming an addict…”

 

John nearly swung on him, just on general principles, but he restrained himself and said, “I think Sherlock may have something to say about that, don’t you, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock, unable to move more than his head, made a floppy sort of nod.

 

The doctor smiled maliciously. “A nod by a patient who can’t speak is not consent. I will do what _I_ think is best, and if you don’t like it, I will have you escorted out and barred from this wing.”

 

John also smiled. It was a dry, humorless smile that made the doctor suddenly realize this might not be a good man to cross.

 

“I see you’ve recovered your balls now that Mycroft isn’t here. He could do all sorts of things to you, if he wished. After all, he has a small role in the British government…” He held up his fingers about an inch apart, then widened the gap until his fingers had reached their maximum span, then took up the gesture with both hands, until…

 

“Don’t threaten me with your ‘friend’,” the doctor retorted, but he looked nervous.

 

“Not a threat,” John stated, calmly, his smile even wider than before. “You could end up practicing medicine in Antarctica, on very difficult penguins.” The doctor’s eyes grew large before he turned and scurried out of the room.

 

“Heard that, Sherlock?” John called over.

 

Shaky head nod.

 

“Looks like we’re going to need to find another way around this twat,” he said, walking back to the bedside before bending down and kissing Sherlock’s forehead. The silver eyes closed, as if savoring the sensation. “I’ll get you what you need and, no, you will not get addicted. I know you better than he does.”

 

Sherlock smiled dispiritedly.

 

>>>***<<<

 

The small, quiet man stood at the doorway to Sherlock’s room, holding his hat in his hands. He looked far too nervous to be here for a mere visit.

 

“So who is this?” John asked Mycroft, who deftly grabbed John’s arm and steered him to the far corner of the room for a private tete-a-tete.

 

“This,” Mycroft jerked his head in the man’s direction. “…is a man who owes me a favor—a rather large one. With your permission…” He lowered his voice and explained his plan. John’s eyebrows shot up.

 

“Do you think that would work?” John asked, dubiously. “I mean, the issue of consent…”

 

Mycroft waved away John’s concern. “As I said, he owes me. Let me worry about that.” He smiled smugly. “Besides, it can always be dissolved later if either of you wants to.”

 

John nodded, brows knit. It was skirting the law, but he trusted Mycroft _about_ this far…

 

“All right, we’ll do it. I just hope Sherlock plays along.”

 

It was Mycroft’s turn to nod. He turned back to the nervous man and explained his plan. The small man looked horrified, at first, but Mycroft pressed him and he finally relented.

 

All this time, Sherlock had been taking in the verbal activity from his semi-reclined position in bed. He needed to be moved every two hours to prevent bedsores, but he refused to let anyone do it but John. He’d thrash his head wildly from side to side, mouthing what could only be either insults or obscenities at anyone who tried to touch him for _anything_ but the most innocent of things, like changing his IV site. John had finally gotten him to allow a nurse to assist him with re-positioning if John wasn’t present, but only just. Sherlock’s blind eyes would widen in alarm at the least undesirable touch or movement.

 

If anyone but John tried to touch his tracheostomy, or someone _not overseen_ by John, Sherlock would lash out as best he could. That trach, and the machine that patiently forced air into his lungs minute by minute, were his lifeline.

 

John took up his position next to Sherlock and placed a hand on his hair to soothe him. At Mycroft’s gesture outside the room, Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper entered the room solemnly. John’s eyebrows rose. Mrs. Hudson, he could understand, but asking Molly…he stepped away from Sherlock and took Mycroft aside.

 

“Don’t you think that’s a bit…unwise, involving Molly? You know how she feels about Sherlock…”

 

Mycroft shrugged. “It was her or Lestrade, and Lestrade was dubious, as much as he likes you two. He’s a lawman, and I wouldn’t ask him to compromise himself in that way. When I explained the situation to Dr. Hooper, she acceded to my request because she knows the doctor in question and thinks he’s a preposterous prat. She’d prefer that you make decisions for Sherlock, since you have his best interests at heart.”

 

John nodded wordlessly as he looked over at the two women. Mrs. Hudson already had her tissues out, but Molly was watching Sherlock with an intensity that was disconcerting.

 

“All right, then. Let’s get on with it,” John finally acquiesced. He returned to Sherlock’s side.

 

Mycroft faced the man by the door. “All right, Vicar. Do your job.”

 

The small man removed his coat, stepped forward, and faced the bed, around which everyone had gathered. As he opened his mouth, a new person rushed into the room.

 

“Sorry, sorry I’m late,” Lestrade apologized, taking his place with the others. Mycroft’s eyebrows rose, and Lestrade said, “What? You think I’m going to miss this? I’m just not going to sign the paperwork, that’s all.”

 

John grinned. Sherlock seemed perplexed, then alarmed. His eyes sought out John, even though he couldn’t see him. His lips moved.

 

_Thank God I learned how to lip-read in the army…all those men with throat injuries…_

 

John laughed. “No, Sherlock, not last rites. Something else that will take care of the matter of who’s responsible for your care.”

 

Eyes grew larger…and angrier. Lips moved again. John replied, “No, not Mycroft. Just listen.”

 

Sherlock shut up, but his expression was suspicious.

 

The Vicar cleared his throat, adjusted his vestments, and began, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to bring together this man and this…man, in holy wedlock…”

 

Mrs. Hudson snuffled. Molly stared straight ahead. Lestrade grinned and gave John a thumbs-up. Mycroft smiled in an insufferably self-satisfied manner.

 

Sherlock went insane. He lifted his head over and over, banging it back down on the pillow, then shaking it side to side violently, while mouthing, “NO! NO! NO!”

 

Everyone was astonished. Even Mycroft.

 

The Vicar took a step backwards. “I can’t continue if there is lack of agreement by all parties. It seems obvious, to me, that one of the grooms has an issue with the proceedings…”

 

Mycroft held up his hand. “Give us a moment, Vicar.”

 

John leaned over Sherlock and placed his hand on Sherlock’s forehead to calm him. Sherlock’s eyes were wild.

 

“What’s wrong, Sherlock? Why don’t you want to do this?” he asked, in a quiet, soothing voice.

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to the sound of John’s voice. His lips formed the word, “NO!”

 

“Why not?”

 

Lips moved again. John was astounded as he repeated, “No pity. I _hate_ pity.”

 

Sherlock threw his head to the sides over and over, repeatedly mouthing, “No! No!”

 

Everyone started talking at once. The vicar tried to leave but was stymied by Mycroft. Lestrade was complaining about his 100 pound bet. Mrs. Hudson burst out into tears while Molly attempted to comfort her, a confused look on her face.

 

John leaned over Sherlock’s body and took Sherlock’s face into both his hands so that he was looking directly into his face. “Sherlock! Sherlock, stop this! Stop! This isn’t pity, Sherlock, it’s not. It’s to give me a legal standing to be your representative in hospital, you hear me? We can dissolve it at any time afterwards…”

 

Anger flared on Sherlock’s face. His lips moved rapidly, emphatically, as he stared sightlessly at John.

 

“What’s he saying?” Lestrade asked, leaning in behind John.

 

“I know what he’s saying,” John said, his voice suddenly very quiet. He leaned in farther and whispered something into Sherlock’s ear.

 

Sherlock calmed immediately, his expression one of surprise. A second later, tears trickled down his cheeks. John suspected he would have sobbed, but the respirator kept his breathing slow and regular.

 

“What did you tell him?” Lestrade asked.

 

John leaned in and kissed the detective’s forehead. “I told him that I loved him, that I want this,” he replied. Sherlock nodded. A new wave of tears slid down his face.

 

“Really, Mr. Holmes, how can I perform a ceremony under these dubious conditions? It’s immoral…” the vicar blathered.

 

“At least as immoral as the disappearance of 53,000 pounds from the church’s coffers _and_ the affair with a parishioner’s wife, wouldn’t you say, _Vicar_?” Mycroft stated blandly. The vicar paled. “Now, shall we continue, or would you like to find a new parish…in jail?”

 

The vicar was a white as his vestments by now.

 

“Good,” Mycroft purred. “I think I could see fit to replace that missing money from your parish’s funds _if_ you do this little favor for me, without further question.”

 

The vicar gulped. “And the woman…?”

 

Mycroft growled, “Don’t push your luck.”

 

The vicar nodded nervously.

 

John spoke gently to Sherlock. “Are you okay with this? Are _we_ okay? I had wanted to surprise you.”

 

Sherlock nodded, jarring loose more tears.

 

John smiled. “Good. Now stop fussing and become my husband, yeah?”

 

Sherlock nodded again, a tiny smile pulling up at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah,” he mouthed.

 

John kissed his forehead again and then stood. “I believe we are ready to continue, Mycroft.”

 

With one final warning look at the vicar, Mycroft stepped back, then handed something to John. “You’ll be needing these, I think.”

 

As the vicar droned on, John opened the small box in his hand. In it were two rings, one plain gold band and one with a repeating pattern of overlapping rings around it in rose gold. John was astounded. He had looked at these rings a week ago…

 

“Never underestimate me again, John,” Mycroft whispered. “My network is quite extensive.”

 

“Thank you,” John whispered back, noticing that Sherlock had also taken notice of their conversation. A small, lop-sided smile had stolen over his lips as he guessed what it was about.

 

“Is there anyone here who does not agree with this union? Speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth, and John immediately placed his open hand over it.

 

“Not even in jest, Sherlock. Behave yourself!” John hissed.

 

Sherlock grinned impishly, all tears gone.

 

Everyone shifted a little, but no one spoke. It was as though they had readied themselves to jump on any dissenters, if needs be.

 

“Please present the rings for blessing.”

 

John held out the rings as the vicar performed the blessing. John then slid the ornate, rose-gold ring onto Sherlock’s unresisting finger. John doubted Sherlock would have resisted even if he _could_ move. He could see a glitter in the detective’s unseeing eyes.

 

The vicar bypassed the personal vows in favor of the simpler “Do you take this man…”

 

Sherlock looked toward John. “Do I?” he mouthed, straight-faced.

 

John nodded. “Of course, you do,” he stated, matter of factly.

 

Sherlock turned his face toward the vicar and mouthed, “I do” while nodding his head.

 

“And so do I,” John added, nodding as well.

 

 The vicar looked nervous and Mycroft cleared his throat meaningfully.

 

The vicar fidgeted, then continued. “Then, by the power invested in me, I now pronounce you… husbands.” He nodded to John. “You may kiss the groom.”

 

A modest cheer went up as John leaned in and kissed Sherlock full on the lips, with enthusiasm. Their combined smiles were bright enough to light up the hospital.

 

“About time,” Lestrade groused, “But, at least, I won the pool!”

 

“Yay!” came a voice from the doorway. Only then did anyone notice that a grinning Dr. Stamford had been standing at the doorway filming the whole thing on his mobile. He pumped his fist into the air. “Woohoo!”


	5. Chapter 5

“ _What_ is _this_ supposed to be, and am I supposed to be impressed by it?” the doctor sniffed as John held up a document right in front of his face.

 

“You should be. This,” he shoved it practically into his glasses, “is a marriage certificate. It proclaims that I am Sherlock’s Holmes’ legal spouse and, as such, able to speak for him if he is unable to speak for himself, aren’t I right, lambikins?” He turned his face toward Sherlock.

 

“Wanker,” Sherlock mouthed, his eyes rolling of their own accord.

 

The doctor drew back far enough to be able to read it. “Well, so it is. Goody for you. However, _I_ am still his doctor, as you do not have practice rights in this particular hospital. So, until you have gone through the entire vetting process, I am still in charge. _No drugs_!” He turned and marched out of the room like a tin-plated general.

 

“Shit, he’s right. How do I manage _that_ in a short time?” John sighed, and his shoulders slumped.

 

“You don’t. _I_ do.”

 

John looked around to see Mycroft, looking especially dapper, leaning against the wall by the door. “Pity, I was _so_ tempted to trip him with my umbrella as he left.” He smiled, a touch roguishly. John had a sudden realization that, while Sherlock had wanted to be a pirate as a child, Mycroft might have fancied himself to be the Scarlet Pimpernel or a gentleman bandit. Less swashbuckling but more romantic.

 

“Mycroft,” John nodded.

 

“John,” Mycroft nodded back, before looking over at Sherlock. “And how are you, brother mine? Not planning on climbing out a window to escape this time, are you?”

 

Sherlock glowered silently. John knew that, if he could, he would have heaped a barrage of insults on his smug brother, but since Mycroft couldn’t read lips…

 

“Okay, Mycroft, _what_ , exactly, do you do?”

 

Mycroft favored John with a bright little smile. “I arrange for you to have practice rights here at Barts, at least for as long as Sherlock is in residence.”

 

John nodded, pushing out his lower lip in thought. “Okay, but won’t that cause some problems…?”

 

Mycroft chuckled. “What, create more problems than Sherlock already has? Blind and paralyzed as he is, he has _still_ managed to terrorize almost the entire staff of this wing! I doubt that _you”_ he pointed at John, “having _him,”_ he pointed at Sherlock, “as your only patient will create any more issues than already exist.”

 

John smirked. Sherlock mouthed something John declined to repeat.

 

The next time Sherlock’s doctor visited, it was his last hurrah. Dr. John Watson was in the hospital.

 

>>>***<<<

 

By the next day, however, Sherlock had managed to sink about as low as John had ever seen him. Despite receiving a morphine drip for his chronic pain, Sherlock became largely unresponsive to people and events surrounding him.

 

The respirator whirred and clicked its usual litany as Sherlock lay in bed, staring straight ahead, his face a mask of grief, as John entered the room, having gone home to 221B for a shower, a shave, and a good night’s sleep. It was evident that there were salty tracks meandering down the sides of his face. When John leaned in to kiss him, Sherlock unexpectedly turned his head away.

 

“Sherlock?” John asked, confounded by this sudden change. “What is it? Did the doctor come back? Did someone say something?”

 

A mute head shake. _No_.

 

“Then what?” he asked, settling himself on the side of the bed toward which Sherlock’s face was turned. Sherlock turned it away again. His lips moved.

 

John leaned in. “Sherlock? I can’t hear you, you know that, so _look at me_.”

 

Suddenly, Sherlock’s head whipped back again, his eyes ablaze. He mouthed, “No, look at ME!”

 

John leaned back, surprised. “What? Sherlock, you look fine…”

 

His new husband leaned his head forward aggressively. John felt as though he would have tried to take a bite out of him, if he’d been able. “Fine? _FINE_? I’m helpless, blind, worthless to you and everyone around me…”

 

“No!”John gasped. “Of course, you’re not! Do you think I would have married…”

 

The full lips formed harsh words. “Yes, why did you marry me?” he mouthed. “A charade. Legal responsibility.” He lurched his head forward again and mouthed, “I RESCIND IT!” He then plopped back down on the pillows, exhausted.

 

“Sherlock…” John started cautiously.

 

“Go away,” Sherlock mouthed, his anger spent. “I hate you. Leave!”

 

John’s mouth opened to speak, but Sherlock’s furious, feral gaze silenced him.

 

John got up wordlessly and walked down the hall, his brain completely overwhelmed by this new turn of events. He marched up and down the long hallway outside the room, hands behind his back, his face a study in anger and frustration. Finally, one of the nurses suggested that he get himself something to drink and sit down for a few, and he reluctantly agreed.

 

When he arrived at the commons room, he sat and thought about Sherlock. About what he was going through. About how it would affect their nascent relationship. About…he shook his head, as if to clear it, and, leaning forward, rested it in his hands. He sat there, just like that, for a very long time, his brain a miasma of worry, anger, and despair.

 

Finally, he got up and bought a cup of really bad coffee, drank it down in one long gulp, then threw the paper cup into the small trash bin beside the drink-dispensing machine. He then proceeded to angrily kick the bin out into the hallway in a fit of pique.

 

It barely missed Molly Hooper coming down the hall. She let out a startled squeak.

 

“John, are you all right?” she asked, concerned.

 

He held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry for the…” he gestured at the trash bin rolling around in the hallway. “I just…I don’t know what to do right now.”

 

Molly nodded. “I understand. Sherlock can be a bit…volatile sometimes.”

 

John laughed, a single mad cackle that made Molly jump. “’Volatile’. That’s a good one. Molly, I’ve known and lived with Sherlock for years and ‘volatile’ doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it. He’s a bloody genius who can’t get on with anyone but me and Mrs. Hudson, and even _she_ feels like swatting him occasionally.” He shook his head ruefully. “I…I just don’t know what to do anymore. I thought that, maybe, besides giving me a legal say in his care, getting married would make him happy, give him something to fight for, a reason to move forward, but now he’s more depressed than ever.”

 

“Well, he’s always been pretty active and involved in things before all this,” Molly noted. John nodded in accord. “I mean, I saw this sort of thing when I was in med school. People would experience periods of intense depression when they lost complete control over their lives. Probably more so for Sherlock,” she added, nodding back down the hall. She stepped forward and leaned in for privacy. “When I went in to see him just now, he actually asked me to kill him!” she said, _sotto voce_.

 

“WHAT? Are you sure” John shouted.

 

“Shhhh!” Molly hushed him, flapping her hands for quiet. “Don’t disturb the other patients, John! And, yes, I’m sure. He was quite plain about it.”

 

John was gobsmacked. “My God, Molly, you tell me something like that and I’m supposed to take it quietly?” he hissed. The intensity of feeling in his words made Molly step back in alarm.

 

“John, he was only venting…”

 

An alarm sounded from somewhere down the hall, precipitating a rush of medical personnel toward the affected room. John and Molly turned to look…

 

It was Sherlock’s room.

 

John practically knocked Molly aside as he sprinted down the hall, followed not-too-closely by Molly, who eyed the departing John warily. He was usually _not_ so rude…

 

John swung around the corner of the doorway to see a nurse and an intern trying to reconnect Sherlock’s oxygen tube to his tracheostomy. Sherlock was actively resisting, thrashing his head from side to side or ducking his chin in an attempt to obscure the opening. John rushed in and, with a quick apology, pushed the nurse aside and grabbed Sherlock’s head in both hands while shouting his name.

 

Sherlock was wild-eyed, silently screaming, still actively resisting to the best of his ability.

 

“Stop trying to connect it!” he yelled at the intern, who stood back, confused, while the respirator continued it mournful wail. “Turn off that damned alarm!”

 

The intern complied and the room fell into silence.

 

Sherlock wasn’t breathing. His eyes became even wilder as his lips began to turn blue, but he stared sightlessly at John. John could see him starting to panic from his inability to breathe and the resulting lack of oxygen.

 

“Do you want to die?” John asked him. Sherlock stared at him, terror writ large on his face. John repeated himself, more loudly. “DO YOU WANT TO DIE?”

 

Finally, Sherlock broke. Tears sprang from his silver eyes and he shook his head “no” against John’s hands. John held out his hand for the oxygen tube and the intern wordlessly handed it to him. He carefully re-attached it to his husband’s trach and watched as the machine re-inflated Sherlock’s lungs.

 

_Whirrr *click* shhhhh…._

 

_Whirrr *click* shhhhh…._

John stroked Sherlock’s face as he did what he would call the “ugly cry”—when all pretense has been set aside, and a person cries out all their fear, pain, and misery. John whispered, “I guess you really _don’t_ want to die, after all, hmmm?”

 

Sherlock shook his head “no” again. His face was reddened and blotchy from crying.

 

“Good,” John replied softly, as he smeared away Sherlock’s copious tears so they wouldn’t roll down into his ears, which he hated. “Because I couldn’t live without you. Tried it once; it was a complete disaster. Living with you may _also_ be a disaster sometimes, but it’s the devil you know…” He grinned, even though he knew Sherlock couldn’t see it.

 

Sherlock mouthed something.

 

John replied, “Yeah, I love you, too.” He chuckled. “You know that’s the first time you’ve said that to me.”

 

Sherlock smiled in spite of his tears and mouthed something else.

 

John laughed. “Yeah, strictly speaking, you haven’t actually _said_ it yet. But you will.”

 

Sherlock looked dubious. John leaned down and kissed him on the lips tenderly, so as not to startle him. “I know you will. Just trust me, ‘K?”

 

Sherlock smiled wanly and mouthed “’K”.

 

Molly watched from the doorway, silently. Then, she turned and walked away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some choices are harder than others, as Sherlock and John discover as they face a turning point in Sherlock's illness; Molly and John have a serious heart-to-heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some aspects of medical practice have been a bit dramatized for this story.

“It’s good of you to join me for a cuppa, Molly,” John said as the two of them sat in the hospital canteen.

 

“Oh, it’s a pleasure, John, really,” Molly enthused. She took a sip of her coffee and grimaced slightly. “Canteen coffee. Not always the best, but drinkable anyway,” she chirped.

 

_One thing about Molly, she’s always enthusiastic. Well, almost always…_

 

“Look, I wanted to apologize for the other day…” John started.

 

Molly looked puzzled. “For what, John? You were upset, that’s all. I’ve seen it happen…”

 

“Molly, I nearly hit you with a trash bin and then I almost knocked you over getting to Sherlock. That’s sort of a bit not good, yeah?”

 

She shrugged. “It’s okay, John. I understand what you’re going through. I mean, what Sherlock means to you…” She cut herself off, her fingers playing uncomfortably with her coffee mug.

 

John pressed his lips together in consideration. Now might _not_ be the right time to broach such a delicate subject…

 

_Oh, to hell with it…_

 

“Molly, you’re worried about Sherlock, too, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice gentle, his demeanor caring. He felt like an old country GP at bedside.

 

Molly didn’t move. Her face assumed a sadness that was uncharacteristic, _except_ when it came to one person. “It’s so hard to see him like that…”

 

“Molly, look, I know…”

 

“That I’m in love with Sherlock? I’m sure you do, John,” she admitted, her eyes filling with tears that she looked determined not to shed.

 

John was taken aback. He hadn’t expected her to be _quite_ so straightforward about it, even after all this time. He was suddenly unsure as to how to proceed.

 

He took a deep breath and jumped into the deep end. “Molly, you’re such an attractive young woman, but…you _do_ realize that Sherlock is… _gay_ , don’t you?” he asked tentatively.

 

Molly laughed self-consciously. “Of course, I am, John. I _had_ suspected it for years, but I finally knew it for a fact when he brought in that folder of his in preparation for your stag night. It was quite extensive, really. The drawing of the Vitruvian Man with your head glued onto it was the _real_ giveaway, though.”

 

John’s eyebrows held an emergency conference. “What? What file? I’ve never…”

 

She laughed painfully again. “Oh, I’m sure you haven’t. Sherlock has _always_ been very closed-mouth about such things, you know? He’d never come out and _say_ it, but I doubt he’d _deny_ it.”

 

_Unlike me…_ John suddenly felt like a first-class heel. _So much could have been avoided if I’d only just admitted who I really was, both to myself **and** Sherlock…_

 

“So,” Molly advanced, after daubing her unshed tears away, “While we’re on the subject… pardon my asking, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but…are you also gay? I mean, you _were_  married to Mary, and now, you’re married to Sherlock…”

 

“Uh, what?” John reared back in surprise. He hadn’t expected the conversation to take _this_ turn…

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business, really…” Molly said, flustered, her hands fluttering in dismay.

 

“Uh, no, no, it’s…uh, okay, Molly. I mean, you were straight with me, even if I didn’t actually _ask_ that,  so it’s only fair…well, I’m, uh, not gay, but I’m not…exactly…straight, either. I can, you know, go…either way, depending on the person…” John stammered.

 

Molly gave him a level look. “So, you’re bisexual. That’s interesting. Not something they teach a lot about in medical school, but it’s okay, it’s who you are.”

 

John gusted a sigh in relief. “Yeah, well, things _would_ have been okay if I hadn’t been ashamed of it all my life.”

 

“Oh,” Molly sympathized. “I’m so sorry, John. People can be so cruel.”

 

“Yeah.” He nodded, casually..

 

“You know, for the longest time, I wondered why Sherlock was so cruel to people sometimes, she mused. “It took me a little while to figure out why he didn’t like me.”

 

“He likes you, Molly. He just…”

 

“I know, John. I thought there was something wrong with _me_ for the longest time. Then, after that night, I realized what a strain it must be to hide who you are at such a basic level. He was trying to make me realize that he and I could never…well, the heart wants what the heart wants, I guess, so I didn’t get the message for the longest time. But, you know,” she continued, leaning forward and placing her hands over John’s, “I’m really happy for you, that the two of you finally found a way to be together.”

 

“Thank you, Molly,” John replied, confused. “But, how can you be, considering how you feel…”

 

She smiled wanly. “I can be happy for someone else, but not happy for myself, you know?”

 

John nodded mutely and squeezed Molly’s hands appreciatively. “Thank you, again, Molly. I’m glad we had this talk. You’re an amazing person.”

 

Molly blushed and giggled. “Thank _you_ , Doctor Watson.”

 

>>>***<<<

 

“Morning, sunshine,” John greeted Sherlock as he breezed into his room.

 

Sherlock didn’t respond. He kept staring, sightlessly, at the ceiling.

 

“Mind Palace time? No, your eyes are open. Wait, I’ve got it!” John snapped his fingers in realization.  ”Olympic Sulk Time! Still working on that World Record?”

 

Sherlock mouthed something without turning his head.

 

“And a ‘bugger off’ to you, too, beautiful!” he retorted, in high spirits.

 

Sherlock turned his face away as John came over to the bed, so, instead of kissing him on the lips, John was only able to manage a peck on a very prominent cheekbone.

 

“So, why are you in such a foul mood today, sourpuss?” John asked.

 

Sherlock’s eyes squeezed shut as he grimaced.

 

“I’m going to keep this up until I get a rise out of you,” John informed him amiably while unpacking his overnight kit into one of the drawers in Sherlock’s bedside table. When he stood up, he checked on the response to his needling and, finding it inadequate, decided further measures were required.

 

 

_“_ Ignore _me_ , will you? Okay, Sherlock, you asked for it,” John said, before clearing his throat and launched into song. _“’Oh, what a beautiful moooorniiiing, oh, what a beautiful dayyy…’”_ he sang, dubiously on-key, with one eye on Sherlock. He could see he was getting red in the face and his lips were a straight line.

 

“I’ve got a beautiful feeeeeeliiiiiiing…”

 

Sherlock finally snapped. His head whipped around to face John and, from his silent mouth, came an outpouring of some of the most offensive deductions and inventive insults he could manage. John read his lips, in awe of the depths of his ire.

 

_Well, thank God, the real Sherlock is still in there…_

 

“How is our patient today, hmmm?” Mycroft’s familiar voice drifted in through the open door.

 

John looked over his shoulder from where he stood, arms crossed, in the direct line of fire of Sherlock’s wrath. “He seems to be recovering well. You really don’t want to know what he just said about my general character and family history. My lack of intellect has already been dealt with pretty extensively…”

 

Sherlock spat at him. Even Mycroft looked surprised.

 

“Hey! No spitting! You’re not a cobra.!” John rebuked him, although, considering the look Sherlock was favoring him with, he fancied he could almost see a cobra’s hood being spread behind Sherlock’s head and neck. He looked _that_ venomous.

 

‘Are you done with your little fit of pique, brother mine?” Mycroft asked.

 

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at him before turning away.

 

John grinned. “I think he’s ready,” he said to Mycroft.

 

“Indeed, I agree. You’ve finally got the fight back into him,” Mycroft observed. “Took long enough.”

 

Sherlock remained with his face averted, but John knew he was taking in every word.

 

“So, once we disconnect the respirator, what happens?” Mycroft queried.

 

Sherlock’s head swiveled ever so slightly on its pillow.

 

“Well, if it doesn’t work, you and I sell off all his worldly goods and go buy some fish and chips with our newly-acquired wealth…” John opined.

.

The Great Detective turned his face so he could glare at his husband and brother. “ _Bugger off_ , _both of_ _you_ ” he mouthed. His sightless eyes were shooting sparks.

 

John and Mycroft both grinned at the response.

 

“Okay, _husband_ , if you’re done unfairly reviling us, I’m going to let you in on a secret; we’re going to start weaning you off the respirator today,” John noted, blithely.

 

Concern—or was it alarm?—took control of Sherlock’s facial expression. John walked confidently to his bedside and brushed an affectionate hand over Sherlock’s hair. The silver eyes had sought out on John’s face as he spoke as if, though blind, he could read the secrets of the universe there. John leaned down, touching his forehead to his husband’s, as Sherlock’s eyes closed, savoring the contact.

 

“If this goes well, we’ll have you off the respirator and breathing on your own in no time, okay? Guillain-Barre is a self-limiting ailment, so it should start reversing itself any time now. I’ll be here whenever they try it, yeah?”

 

Sherlock nodded. John ran his other hand across a cheekbone and felt moisture. He kissed the detective’s forehead and brushed away the tears that leaked, unwillingly, from his eyes.

 

“I know you’re afraid, love, but I won’t let anything happen to you. After all, I want you around for a while, at least until Mycroft and I can afford to _buy a drink_ to go with those chips…”

 

Mycroft smiled in indulgent amusement.

 

John chuckled.

 

Sherlock… _laughed_.

 

An alarm chirped. The machine’s rhythm had been broken and it frantically tried to recalibrate itself. It pushed in another breath, which Sherlock laughed back out.

 

John looked at Mycroft in amazement.  It may have _sounded_ like a cough because of the voicelessness, but it wasn’t. There was no moistness to it, no sputum expulsion, and Sherlock was in no apparent respiratory distress. In fact, he seemed as surprised as they were.

 

“Mycroft, call in the respiratory therapist—she’s just outside. I want to try plugging his trach to see what happens.” He looked down at Sherlock and asked, “You trust me?”

 

“With my life,” Sherlock mouthed back. John kissed his lips gently, resting his hand on Sherlock’s cheek for emotional support.

 

Once the therapist was set up, she deflated the occlusive cuff holding the tube in place internally, and then unhooked the oxygen tube from Sherlock’s trach, making sure the alarm had been disabled. A plastic plug was fitted into the end of the tube in Sherlock’s neck.

 

“Breathe, love. Try to breathe through your nose and mouth, K?” he urged, watching and listening as the seconds ticked by.

 

Sherlock tried. He tried to inhale but only succeeded in looking like a beached fish. His eyes grew wider and more afraid the longer he went without oxygen. His skin began to lose whatever little pink it had in it, favoring more and more blue tones as time went on.

 

“Reconnect him,” John ordered sadly. The therapist pulled out the plug and…

 

Sherlock breathed.

 

The pink rushed back into his face and neck as he inhaled and exhaled haltingly, as though relearning how to breathe. His eyes calmed. Then he smiled. Then he grinned.

 

“Having a little stage fright, eh, love?” John teased before kissing Sherlock enthusiastically on the forehead. Sherlock raised his face so that his lips could be more easily accessed by John, who took complete and joyful advantage of the offer.

 

“Just like my dear brother to be overly-dramatic,” Mycroft sighed. John chuckled while Sherlock stuck his tongue out at him again.

 

“Might have been some sort of blockage around the tube, or the cuff didn’t deflate properly,” the therapist observed. “There should have been plenty of room around the trach for him to breathe normally.”

 

John nodded. “Yeah, maybe that’s the case. I think we should keep him on the ventilator…”

 

Sherlock frantically shook his head and mouthed, “No!”

 

“Sherlock,” John sighed, “We have to go slowly here. Just because you can breathe for a few minutes on your own doesn’t mean you’re ready to solo. You could experience apneic attacks…”

 

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock’s steely gaze said. His mouth was set.

 

“Sherlock, the ventilator will only provide breaths for you if you don’t breathe for a specific amount of time. It’s time to be a bit cautious, _husband_.” John smiled softly down at Sherlock and stroked his face reassuringly. Sherlock turned his face into John’s hand and nuzzled it. “It will only be for a day or two more, then we’ll consider giving you a talking trach. Deal?”

 

“Dubious” was the only way to describe the look on Sherlock’s angular face.

 

“Trust me, love?” Softly.

 

A pause, then a nod, accompanied by a bobbing of dark curls that seriously needed shearing.

 

“Okay. Good. I don’t want to lose you yet…” John began, when Sherlock completed his sentence by mouthing, “until you can afford drinks with your chips.”

 

John involuntarily snorted laughter as Sherlock grinned, some of his former cheekiness returning. Even Mycroft smirked.

 

At Dr. John Watson’s direction, Sherlock was placed back on the ventilator, which was adjusted to an “On Demand” setting. As Sherlock proved he could breathe on his own, he visibly relaxed as his husband stroked his hair and complimented him on his progress.

 

Yes,indeed; well or ill, Sherlock _still_ loved compliments.


	7. Chapter 7

It was there when John came back from dinner one evening.

 

He frowned and sniffed unconsciously before looking over at Sherlock, who lay in bed with his eyes closed, sans respirator.

 

“When did this arrive?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

 

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and gave his husband a puzzled look. “What?” he whispered, his voice still off-line. Unable to close the opening to his talking trach, he was relegated to soft, breathy speech, so completely unlike his usual rich, powerful baritone.

 

“ _This_ ,” John reiterated, pointing at the offending object.

 

It was Sherlock’s turn to frown. “In case you’ve forgotten, John, I. Can’t. SEE,” he wheezed.

 

John rolled his eyes in exasperation.

 

“And don’t you roll your eyes at _me_ , John Watson” Sherlock added, in obvious whispery irritation. “I may be useless as a detective, but I know _you_. There is something new in this room that has captured your imagination.”

 

“Yeah, you _could_ say that,” John retorted, a head of steam starting to build up inside him. “Allow me to describe it for you; It’s red, has a thorny stem, green petals, and is in a black, long-necked vase, accompanied by a note with the letter ‘W’ on the front.” He strode over to the table upon which it sat and picked up the note, opening it one-handed. “It’s signed, ‘the Woman’.” He slammed it down, causing the vase to wobble.

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. “’The Woman’? Irene Adler was here? I _thought_ I smelled something familiar, but it was so diluted by the smell of disinfectant…”

 

“Have you been in communication with her?” John accused, his temper flaring. “Are you still…”

 

“‘In communication with her’, _how_ , John?” Sherlock shot back, raising his head slightly. “Do you think I texted her with my tongue? Sent a morse code message by blinking, like _you_ did at the pool? You’re being paranoid, John,” he finished, dropping his head back on to the pillow exhaustedly.

 

John paced over to stand beside Sherlock’s head. “Then _how_ did it _get_ there? She was here! You talked to her, you _must_ have…”

 

“John!” Sherlock barked, airily, his trach momentarily bulging out of his neck with the force of his exhale. “Think about what you are saying. Why would I…wait…are you still _jealous_ of her?” The look on Sherlock’s face was one of absolute incredulity.

 

“NO!” John blustered, suddenly feeling _entirely_ too exposed. “But, I mean, she could have, you know, suffocated you with a pillow, or left a poisonous snake behind, or…”

 

Sherlock’s face softened significantly, a lop-sided smile adorning his lips. “Or what, John, _kissed_ me?”he chuckled. “You can be a ridiculous man sometimes,” he murmured fondly.

 

John’s shoulders slumped and he let out a frustrated sigh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right, _as usual_. I _can_ be pretty ridiculous when it comes to you…”

 

“And I love you all the more for it,” Sherlock finished his statement wheezily. He smiled and cocked his head to the side. “Maybe you should look around the room for that snake…”

 

John snorted an unexpected laugh. Sherlock grinned up at him.

 

“So, how are you feeling, love?” John inquired, laying a gentle hand on Sherlock’s head and ruffling his curls. “When you’re feeling better, we’re going to have to get you washed, shorn and shaved, you know.”

 

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes. “I know. I must look a fright.”

 

“Not to me,” John reassured him. He leaned down and planted a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead, eliciting a mischievous smile.

 

“You missed my lips,” Sherlock noted, breathily.

 

“Yeah, I’ll have to work on that,” John teased back.

 

>>>***<<<

 

“I’m bored.”

 

John looked up from his magazine. “You’re _always_ bored. That’s nothing new.”

 

“No, I’m _not_ bored when I’m _working_. I _am_ bored when I’m lying in bed waiting for a miracle to happen.”

 

John smirked as he looked back down at his magazine. “One already has. Your trach is out and you’re breathing on your own. Your voice is starting to come back and you’re complaining. Things are working out just fine.”

 

“Still blind.”

 

John sighed. “Give it time, Sherlock. Things will resolve at their own pace. Proximal to distal recovery, remember? Your vagus nerve, which originates in the brain, just happened to recover first, allowing you to breathe on your own again. By that rule, the eyes should recover soon, since they are _also_ cranial nerves.”

 

“So _you_ say,” he rasped.

 

“Grump.”

 

“Smug prat.”

 

John grinned. “For a change. That’s usually _you_.”

 

Sherlock grunted and turned his face away. “I hate you.”

 

“Sure you do,” John shot back.

 

“So, how’s our favorite patient today?” Lestrade inquired as he breezed into the room. “Respirator’s gone, I see. That’s good news, right?”

 

John nodded brightly. “Lestrade. Good of you to drop by. Afraid Sherlock’s in a bit of a twist right now.”

 

“I’m BORED.” The croaked words rebounded off the wall, as Sherlock refused to turn his face back toward them.

 

“And getting his voice back again. Great! Now we can all get back to being insulted again by our favorite consultant,” Lestrade joked.

 

“So says Inspector Clousseau,” Sherlock shot back, in obvious pique.

 

“Sherlock…” John warned, but Lestrade interrupted him.

 

“Now, be nice, Sherlock, or I won’t give John this new case for you to play with.”

 

Sherlock’s head turned ever-so-slightly. “Case?”

 

“Yes. Quite the puzzler, too. John?” Lestrade said as he handed the file to John.

 

Quickly running an eye over the crime report and lab results, John’s eyebrows rose. “Hmm, victim found hanging in his closet by his landlady after body had begun to smell. Autopsy found victim had suffered multiple broken bones, as if from a fall, but also had sand in his lungs _and_ a brain hemorrhage. Victim was a loner…” He slapped the file shut and stated, “No, I don’t think Sherlock would be interested in something so mundane…”

 

“John!” a strangled cry came from the bed as Sherlock practically cracked several cervical vertebrae turning his head at speed. His eyes were wide and alert, despite being unfocused, and John could practically _see_ sparks going off behind them. He grinned at Lestrade and gave him the thumb’s-up.

 

“Leave it, Lestrade. John does _not_ speak for me on such matters,” Sherlock intoned, some of his vocal power miraculously returning.

 

John grinned mischievously. “Oi, I have some say in this! You’re not well enough to do this sort of work yet, Sherlock. As your doctor…”

 

“Oh, _bugger_ you as my doctor! I want this case, Lestrade!” Sherlock fairly yelled, his voice cracking and uneven but forceful.

 

Lestrade held up his hands in surrender. “It’s yours, Sherlock. I’ll send you any new information we uncover as soon as we get it. In the meantime…”

 

“And send me any cases your people have been unable to solve! I need work!” the detective snapped.

 

“But you can’t read…” John said, playing devil’s advocate.

 

“ _You_ can read them to me, John,” Sherlock stated, his rough tones still brooking no argument. “It’s better than those dreadfully dry medical journals you’ve been torturing me with. And _you_ can do the legwork and leave the thinking to _me_. Stop grinning, Lestrade; your dim-witted diversion is grossly apparent to anyone with any intelligence at all, _even_ a blind man.”

 

Lestrade covered his mouth with his hand to keep from laughing out loud. “Okay, Sherlock, I’ll send over all the files I can manage. You and John can have a bit of fun with them, eh?”

 

“ _’Fun_ ,’” Sherlock snorted. “This is hardly anyone’s definition of ‘fun’, but I shall try to find amusement in it, just to please _you_ , Inspector.”

 

“Aaand on that note, Inspector, we will bid you adieu,” John interrupted, standing to escort the policeman from the room. He leaned in at the doorway. “I‘ll try to keep him occupied, for _all_ our sakes…”

 

“I can hear you!” came a raspy voice from the bed.

 

“ _Shut it_ ,” John called back, “and just be glad Lestrade has brought you something to do, you miserable misanthrope!”

 

Silence.

 

“Good comeback, John. I applaud you,” Sherlock croaked.

 

Lestrade grinned and shook his head as he left. John returned to his seat beside the bed. “Now, if you’re willing to keep your mouth shut for a while, _except_ when asking pertinent questions, I will continue with the case file…”

 

Sherlock’s eyes closed and he said, “Proceed.”

>>>***<<<

 

 

One major theft, one unsolved murder, and a missing heiress later, and Sherlock was in a significantly better mood. One would almost call him buoyant. Back in his element again, Sherlock quickly returned to his scathing, overbearing, intolerable self. In short, John was more in love with him than ever.

 

“You really are a dick, you know that?” John rebuked him after one of Sherlock’s patented tirades against the NSY evidence officers.

 

“My God, John, doesn’t it bother you that imbeciles of this caliber are responsible for the collection of vital pieces of evidence at a crime scene? If it weren’t for my input…”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re brilliant, you’re fantastic, Scotland Yard is lucky to have you, you have a lovely bum…” John droned, absently, while reading another file.

 

“Thank you, John, I…what did you say?”

 

John looked up, all innocence. “What?”

 

“ _You_ know what.”

 

John just raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Oh, _that_. Well, I thought we were just stating facts…”

 

The tiniest smirk touched the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “I haven’t forgotten, you know.”

 

John’s smile softened. “I figured you hadn’t. Don’t worry, it’s still on the agenda.”

 

The tiny smile dropped. “Someday, perhaps,” Sherlock whispered before turning his face away. “After that miracle occurs.”

 

“Sherlock…” John started, but his words drifted off as he recognized that Sherlock was no longer listening.


	8. Chapter 8

“So, how are things progressing with your patient, _Doctor_ Watson?” Mycroft inquired smoothly, as he sat with John in the solarium down the hall from Sherlock’s room. His long fingers, very similar to Sherlock’s, played with a paper cup full of the most dreadful tea on the planet, but he forced it down in an attempt to be “social”. After all, John had procured it for him from the machine in the commissary, so it would have been rude to refuse. “I must apologize for not being able to visit more often. Matters of state, and all that. You understand.” He sipped his tea and suppressed a grimace.

 

For his own part, John was amused by Mycroft’s feeble attempts at sociability. He knew him _just_ well enough to recognize how much he wished he could be somewhere else, doing _something_ else, rather than being conversational with his estranged brother’s new husband. He sat across from Mycroft, sipping horrendous coffee constantly to hide his grin at his brother-in-law’s discomfiture. There was little enough respect between them as it was; laughing at Mycroft’s expense would just flat-line the relationship.

 

“Good. Good,” John replied, brightly. More brightly than he felt, actually. Recently, Sherlock,despite his slow-but-steady recovery, had taken another downturn mentally. “We’ve been able to taper him off the morphine drip as his pain decreased, so he’s feeling more mentally clear. His trach incision is healing well and his voice has pretty much returned to normal. He’s been able to swallow puddings and thick soups without choking, so I’ve considered discontinuing his IV’s, except that he complains bitterly about the food and refuses to eat most of what is presented to him.”

 

“Hmm, perhaps Mrs. Hudson could be of some assistance, in that case,” Mycroft suggested, archly. “Sherlock always _raves_ about her cooking.”

 

John nodded. “Yeah, good idea. I’m sure she’d do it; anything for Sherlock, you know. I could also get some take-away, once he’s better with a full diet.” He stopped, pensively, and pressed his lips together.

 

Mycroft’s brow raised. “Problem?”

 

John nodded. “Yes. He refuses to let anyone feed him but me. He chases everyone out of his room with some of the most aggressive deductions I’ve ever heard from him. It’s as though loss of his sight has enhanced his other senses to an almost supernatural degree. Besides that, his mood has taken a turn for the worse again. I thought the cases would help, but…”

 

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock was always a very moody child, John. Emotional to the extreme, fragile, sensitive. I trained him in logic and reasoning and how to manage his emotions so he would not be quite so _vulnerable_ in a world that could be quite cruel to people like him.” He sighed and, in a rare moment of reflection, said, “I sometimes wonder if I did him a favor or not. Perhaps I should have allowed him to learn such things on his own. The feelings, that is, not the rest. He was always intelligent, just not the shining star of the family, that’s all. Eurus took _that_ prize, and look at what it cost her. The more intelligent one is, the less one can function within the wider world. Once you see things as they really _are_ , rather than the way you would _want_ them to be, _idealistically_ , the more you see how _dysfunctional_ everything, and everyone, is. It can be quite horrifying, John. It’s just too… _peopley_ out there.” He shuddered. “Combine that with Sherlock’s enhanced _sensitivities_ , and I’m surprised sometimes that he doesn’t just… _combust_ from the peopleyness!”

 

John snorted laughter before covering it up with another sip of Horrendous Coffee. “I agree with you, Mycroft. Sherlock can be so _prickly_ , sometimes, when he’s around people. It’s almost like, he _wants_ to help them but, at the same time, he can’t _stand_ them.”

 

Mycroft nodded. “Well put, John. When he was younger…”

 

“GO AWAY!” came a yell from down the hall. “STOP MANHANDLING ME! JOHN! JOHHHN!!”

 

John leapt from his seat, spilling his coffee on the rug beside his chair as he dashed down the hallway, Mycroft strolling behind before remembering that he had left his umbrella beside his seat and returning for it. John burst into the room, expecting the worst. “Sherlock! What…?”

 

“ _Get this person away from me_!” Sherlock bellowed. He jerked his head toward a nurse standing beside his bed with a small tub full of water and a washcloth set up on the bedside table. “You know how I feel about being…touched by strangers!”

 

John nearly collapsed in the doorway from relief. “ _Jesus_ , Sherlock, I thought you were being _murdered_ or something! What the hell is _wrong_ with you?”

 

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock hissed, “I did _not_ give permission for this…this _person_ to touch me, let alone attempt to disrobe me! I disallow it! _Away with you_!”

 

The nurse sighed deeply and said, with all the patience she could muster, “Mr. Holmes, I was requested by your doctor to bathe and shave you…”

 

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “John? Did you _request_ this perversion? Have you forgotten how I feel about…”

 

John held up his hands defensively. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Would you feel better if I got a male nurse for you?” His eyes met the nurse’s and she gave him a look that embodied frustration, affront, and total disbelief. He put a finger to his lips, then a thumb over his shoulder while mouthing “sorry!” She sighed again, rolled her eyes, and walked purposefully out of the room.

 

Sherlock shook his head “no”, lips compressed and eyes staring straight ahead, yet somehow unfocused, as if seeing something at a distance that he found distressing. When John gently placed a hand on his upper arm, Sherlock’s eyes turned in his direction, searching for a point of reference.

 

They shot up to his face, following his voice, when John inquired, “Are you still in pain, Sherlock? I thought you said…”

 

A quick shake of the head. “No. No more pain, just…John, there’s something I’ve never told you before,” he admitted, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Something I would want you to keep to yourself.” There was an uncharacteristic plea in his tone.

 

“Of course,” John asserted. He squeezed Sherlock’s arm supportively. “Go on,” he urged.

 

Lips flatlined, Sherlock seemed to be collecting his strength before speaking. “It was a long time ago, in uni. I was housed in a dorm with many other male students—none of that ‘co-ed housing’ back then. I always felt…uncomfortable around the other boys, as though I was under constant siege by their apparent dislike of me, which no one made any effort to hide.”

 

John’s mind leapt back in time to their second case together, involving Sherlock’s old uni chum Sebastian Wilkes. Sebastian had made it very clear how he and his fellows had felt about Sherlock’s deductive skills and, indeed, about Sherlock himself. There was something about that meeting that had bothered John, something in Seb’s attitude…

 

John nodded. “Go on…”

 

Sherlock looked down in remembrance. “At the time, I was sharing a room with my friend Victor Trevor, the only person in uni, besides my professors, who actually seemed to _like_ me. We weren’t as close as some, but we could talk and enjoy each other’s company, and he _always_ had my back against the others. One evening, however, the situation…became untenable.” His face hardened, but there was a glitter in his eyes. John brushed his tangled fringe away from his face as a couple of fat tears rolled down those prodigious cheekbones, as rain falls down a granite cliff.

 

“I decided to take a shower late that night, to avoid the other boys. Normally, Victor would be nearby, but, on this particular night, he wasn’t. I went into the shower room and, being as quiet as possible, I undressed and turned on the water. A few minutes later, the lights went off.” His breaths started coming faster as his voice became a bit ragged with emotion. “The room was nearly black. There were no windows, no lights except those from the loo around the corner. All of a sudden, a group of boys exploded into the shower room, shouting taunts at me. Some of them had buckets of cold water, which they threw on me, one after the other. Then, they grabbed me; some by the arms, some by the legs, one by the genitals…” More tears coursed down his face as he choked back a sob. “They bent me over…yelling disgusting names at me…telling me I _deserved_ this…Thank God Victor arrived back and heard the row. He turned on the lights and they went scurrying out of the room like rats, but not before I saw some of their faces. Seb was one of them, one of the ringleaders.” He closed his eyes and wept silently.

 

John heard a faint gasp from behind him and turned to see Mycroft standing in the doorway, his face a mask of suppressed horror. John lifted a finger to his lips before turning back to Sherlock and sliding his arms around his neck. He then rubbed his cheek against Sherlock’s matted hair. “ _God_ , Sherlock, I had no idea…”

 

“It’s even worse,” Sherlock sobbed. “Even though I informed the Student Rep of the situation, and Victor backed me up, the boys themselves said it was just a hazing ritual, and ‘all in good fun’. Of course, most of them being _legacies_ , nothing was done about it. However, when Victor told his father what had happened to me, his father pulled Victor out of uni, stating that _I_ was a bad influence on his son and that he could do better elsewhere, somewhere there were fewer “strange boys” like me. So, I lost my only friend at uni because of Seb and his kind.”

 

Nausea and anger battled for a place in John’s gut. His friend wasn’t the only thing Sherlock had lost that night he had lost any sense of safety and self-respect at the hands of a bunch of hate-spewing monstrosities who had gotten away scot-free. “If I had known that, Sherlock, I would have shoved Sebastion out the window of his poncy office. _Bastard_! No wonder he looked so smug at that meeting!”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and sought out John’s face blindly. “Now you understand, don’t you? Why I…over-reacted? I mean, here I am, blind, unable to defend myself, and someone lays their hands on me _against my will_ …” His expression was tragic; in it, a yearning for compassion, a bit of kindness that was never shown to him in his youth.

 

John stroked Sherlock’s face soothingly as he kissed his forehead. “Yeah. I understand, love. _Jesus_ , I’m _so_ sorry, I didn’t think you’d react like this…”

 

“I know you didn’t, John,” Sherlock replied softly, nuzzling back, his tears wiping off on John’s skin.  “ _Please_ don’t send anyone else in to bathe me. I…don’t want to be touched by anyone except _you_.”

 

John nodded. “Agreed. You’re _my_ husband, _my_ responsibility. No one’s ever going to hurt you again while _I’m_ alive.”

 

Sherlock turned his face up toward John’s and whispered, “Don’t tell Mycroft.”

 

John was shocked. “What? Why? You mean, he doesn’t _know_? I thought he knew pretty much everything about your past!” John stammered, as he looked over his shoulder at Sherlock’s older brother.

 

“No. I never told him. I was afraid he’d pull me out of uni or…do something rash, in retribution,” Sherlock admitted. “I didn’t want to go to a lesser program somewhere else, so that left me at the tender mercies of the boys in the dorm. I was able to transfer to a room in another wing, far away from other students, but I was always alone after that. That’s when I started taking drugs, to deal with the abuse and rejection I felt.”

 

Resting his head against his husband’s, John closed his eyes and fought down his anger. “Sherlock, I’m going to go talk to the nurses and explain the situation. From now on, I’ll take care of you, okay? If someone else has to touch you for _any_ reason, such as turning you over, I will let you know _in advance_. Is that all right?”

 

Sherlock nodded, eyes closed, as his breathing slowed. “Yes. Thank you, John.”

 

John kissed Sherlock and said, “I’ll be right back.” Sherlock nodded again. John hitched his head toward the door at Mycroft, who rolled around the door jamb and into the hallway. John followed, directing him back to the solarium where their cups had been picked up but the stains remained.

 

“Sit,” John commanded, and Mycroft did. “You didn’t know that?”

 

“No. If I had, this _Sebastian_ and his friends would never have finished uni. My mother was a very prestigious alumna; _far_ more, I’m sure, than their wastrel fathers were. To think that they could terrorize my brother, abuse him, attempt to…” Mycroft shook his head, as if to clear it, but the color had risen in his cheeks quite without his knowledge. He pulled himself up to his fill height in the chair and stated, with great determination, “Well, John, it is never too late to even the scales of justice. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some things to attend to.” He rose from his seat, stopped, and turned to John. “Thank you, John, for the way you care about Sherlock. I must admit, I was…uncertain about you when we first met, but I am gratified to find that my initial reservations about you were completely wrong. Good day to you.” He nodded his head respectfully as he sauntered away.

 

_There goes a man with a plan…why do I suddenly feel sorry for those poor bastards?_

 

John walked back to the nurse’s station and explained that he would, himself, be bathing Sherlock and assisting with his direct physical care. The nurses all seemed somehow _relieved,_ even though they tried to suppress it.  John knew that several of them had already been on the receiving end of Sherlock’s ill humor. 

 

As he entered Sherlock’s room, John heard the distinct sound of high-fives and hissed “yess!"es behind him, but he decided not to let on. The burden of care had just been transferred from _them_ to _him_ , and John wouldn’t have it any other way.

 


	9. Chapter 9

“Calm down, Sherlock. She’s only going to wash and cut your hair. She’s done it hundreds of times before…”

 

“Not when _I_ can’t see what’s going on,” he griped. “How will I know that it’s _right_?”

 

John leaned back his head and sighed. “Sherlock, I’ll be here the whole time.”

 

“Not my usual stylist,” he groused.

 

“Shut it. You need a haircut and you’re getting one. You look like a chia pet on meth.”

 

The stylist giggled. Sherlock glowered in her direction. “She’s not going to shave me, is she?”

 

“No, I’ll do that.”

 

“With my straight razor?”

 

John paused for a moment before saying, “No, the temptation would be too great. Safety razor it is.”

 

John could see one corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirk upward before he said, “Twat.”

 

The stylist had her hands full with her prickly client. Despite her best efforts, Sherlock managed to find fault with pretty much everything she did. Even when John told him how great he looked afterwards, his mood still didn’t improve. When John slipped the stylist a considerable tip on her way out, she smiled tentatively and whispered, “Never again” as she left.

 

John laughed to himself as he sauntered over to his husband’s bed, where he kissed him on the forehead and said, “You can be a right bastard when you want to be.”

 

Sherlock grunted noncommittally. “It _feels_ better, I’ll give you that. I was beginning to wonder if  I was back in Serbia again.” He leaned his head back on the pillow. “Does it really look good, John?” he asked, a plaintive note in his voice that caught in John’s heart.

 

“Of course, it does,” John said, softly, leaning down to kiss those luscious lips so obviously offered. “You look gorgeous. You’ll be back to breathtaking once I’ve finished shaving you…”

 

“You can’t go in there, sir,” came a thin voice from the hall outside. John turned just in time to see Sebastian Wilkes storm through the door and up to the foot of the bed. A worried nurse followed him, protesting, until John signaled that he would handle things. She nodded and retreated.

 

“Ah, Sebastian. To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Sherlock asked, offhandedly.

 

“You bastard, up to your old tricks again, eh?” Seb sputtered. “Okay, who told you I was here? Your “colleague” over here? The receptionist?”

 

“Your after-shave, actually,” Sherlock responded. “It preceded you into the room. Custom, same one you were wearing when we came to your office that first time.”

 

“Uh, yeah, and I’m his _husband_ now, just so you know,” John added, all innocence and politeness.

 

Seb looked between the two and sneered. “A Nancy-boy. I figured as much in uni but I never had any real proof. Wouldn’t have figured _you_ for it, though,” he sniped at John, who regarded him calmly.

 

“What seems to be your problem today, Sebastian? I’m afraid I won’t be able to assist you…” Sherlock started, only to be rudely interrupted.

 

“Assist me? ASSIST ME? You’ve done _more_ than enough, Sherlock! Or should I call you _Shitluck_ , like back in uni? Up to your old tricks! Making up stories about people based on some bullshit ‘evidence’ that you blew up into something embarrassing? God, we hated you!” Seb hissed, his jaw thrust out in rage. He took a step toward the head of Sherlock’s bed and John moved swiftly and smoothly into place between them, hands behind his back.

 

“I wouldn’t advise doing anything rash, Sebastian,” John advised, his voice calm but his jaw tight.

 

Seb stopped and stared down at John. “I’m not afraid of you _or_ your trouble-making boyfriend…”

 

“Husband.”

 

“ _Husband_ ,” Seb mocked him. “Well, I owe your ‘ _husband’_ a fat lip…”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. “Whatever for? What have I _supposedly_ done to merit this?”

 

Seb pointed his finger at Sherlock and declared, “ _You_ …You _ruined_ my career, that’s what! I was a _hero_ after you solved that case, on my way up to making partner in the company…”

 

“Boring. Your problem?”

 

Seb sputtered. “Now, I’ve been demoted, with a threat of being blackballed from the field _entirely_ because of some lies you spread…”

 

“ _I_ spread? And how did I _manage_ this prodigious feat?” Sherlock inquired, his manner calm and _almost_ amused.

 

“You supplied my boss with certain… _information_ …you know _bloody well_ how you did it, you smug _bastard_!” Seb raged. “You even _hand-delivered_ it…”

 

“Wait. I did _what_?” Sherlock challenged him, barely able to keep a grin off his face. “Have you, by _any_ chance, noticed my current condition, Sebastian?”

 

Seb looked him up and down. “You’re in a bed in hospital. So what? You _could_ have done this…”

 

“When?”

 

“Two days ago. They told me just this morning…” he ranted.

 

Sherlock turned his head to John and said, in his calmest, clearest voice, “ _Doctor_ Watson, would you _please_ explain to Mr. Wilkes exactly _why_ I’m in this bed?”

 

John turned, partially bowed toward Sherlock, and said, “It would be my pleasure.” He then turned back toward Seb, catching Seb’s eyes with his own. “For your information, _Mr. Wilkes_ , my patient was diagnosed with a neurological disorder and has been bedbound for _well_ over a month. He is unable to move his body from the neck down, is completely blind and, until _very_ recently, dependent on a ventilator to breathe. How do you think he accomplished this not-inconsiderable feat?” He canted his head to one side and smiled coldly.

 

Seb stammered, “Wh-what? N-no, the senior partner stated that a Mr. Holmes…”

 

A smile finally crept over Sherlock’s face as the realization dawned. “Ah, yes. That would probably have been Mycroft, then. As you can see, Seb, I have been _quite_ unable to wipe my own arse without assistance for some time, so how could I have done these things of which I have been accused?”

 

“You could have had the information previously…” he accused.

 

“ _For what reason, Seb_?” Sherlock shot back. “I have no reason to wish you ill. I put our past association far behind me. Our more recent business transaction was terminated and we both went our separate ways, mutually enriched and satisfied with the outcome. So why would _I_ want to…” His voice trailed off as that brilliant mind put two and two together. “John, remember that time I told you about my… _experience_ in uni…”

 

“Yeah, of course. What, do you think that _I_ would have told someone else?” John asked, mildly affronted.

 

“The thought never even crossed my mind,” Sherlock replied, soothingly. “I was merely wondering if, perhaps, there had been someone _else_ within earshot? Someone I couldn’t see or hear?” His voice was mild but curious.

 

John chewed his lip, then sighed, before answering. “Yes. Yes, there was.”

 

“Ah. You didn’t tell me that.”

 

“I didn’t want to upset you. You _said_ you didn’t want him to know, but he _heard_ , nonetheless.”

 

Sherlock nodded, then turned his face toward Seb. “I believe what you are currently experiencing can be most easily summed up as ‘repayment for the sins of one’s youth’. You see, I had never told anyone what you and your friends attempted to do to me that night in the shower. If my brother had known about it, you would never have gotten _this_ far in your career.”

 

Seb blanched. John smiled and said, “Looks like you hit a nerve, Sherlock.”

 

“I suspected as much from the silence. Now, Sebastian, if you wouldn’t mind leaving me alone with my husband _and_ doctor, you can just _hope_ that this is the extent of what my brother has planned for you and your cohorts, since I’m fairly certain Mycroft has done his research _quite_ thoroughly and tracked down _all_ the perpetrators. You _may_ want to be in contact with them; I’m sure they have also suffered recent…

reversals in _their_ careers.”

 

“I’ll sue! This is defamation of my character, and I will _not_ …” Seb started in.

 

“You will do _nothing_ , Sebastian!” Sherlock blasted him, the old fire reigniting in his unseeing eyes. “My brother, as you may not be aware, occupies a _unique_ position in the British Government. If he had so chosen, he could have you shipped off to Antarctica to sell insurance policies to penguins. Rejoice if he goes no further with this, and learn that you can’t treat people like shite and expect to get off scot-free!”

 

John raised his hand and waggled his fingers at Seb. “Bye-bye,” he said, in a high falsetto.

 

Seb pointed viciously. “I’m not done with you, _Shitluck_ …”

 

“But _I’m_ done with _you_ , Seb, even if Mycroft isn’t. Good bye.” Sherlock turned his face away. John advanced casually on Seb and watched as he scuttled out of the room, stumbling over a patient in a wheelchair on his way to the lift.

 

John watched his withdrawal-in-disgrace with a satisfied smile. “I never liked him. Liked his payments, but not him,” he remarked with a chuckle before returning to Sherlock’s bedside. “You’re going to be wearing that grin all day, aren’t you?”

 

Sherlock rolled his head back on the pillow toward John. “That,” he grinned, “was probably the _best_ gift my brother has given me in my _entire life_.”

 

Laying his hand on Sherlock’s newly-shorn locks, John noted, “Your brother really does love you, you know. He was _appalled_ by what he heard.”

 

Sherlock dropped his eyes. “I know. I’ve _always_ known, but there’s just been so much _more_ keeping us apart than pulling us together _._ Old feuds, resentments, rivalries…”

 

“Maybe it’s time to put them to rest, yeah?” John said, his voice all softness as he leaned down to kiss Sherlock’s forehead.

 

“Maybe. But not right now,” Sherlock conceded. “I’d rather it be a meeting between equals rather than _this_.” He jerked his head downward to indicate is still-unresponsive body.

 

John nodded. “Yeah. Good idea, love.”

 

“However, John, I must take you to task on one thing…”

 

An eyebrow rose. “Yeah? And what is that?”

 

“You keep missing my lips.”

 

John grinned and remedied _that_ situation _immediately_.


	10. Chapter 10

“The Daily Mail, John? _Really_? How can you read that drivel?” Sherlock asked, sourly.

 

John looked up in surprise. “Wait, how did you…?”

 

“The rustling sound of a tabloid format is different from that of a fold-up paper. Also, the Daily Mail puts something in its ink that is… _distasteful_ to the few who can actually _smell_ it. _I_ happen to be one of them,” he groused. “Still, I would have _thought_ you would be reading something slightly more _reputable_ …if such a thing still _exists_ in the printed media.”

 

John chuckled. “Oh, no, Sherlock, I wanted to wring _all_ the pleasure out of _this_ article.”

 

Sherlock perked up. “Do tell, John. What could possibly provide you with such reason for glee?”

 

John repositioned the paper and read, in his best Sherlockian tones, “Reputable Banker Suffers Reversal of Fortune; Rash of Sudden Firings Rocks Business World.” He chuckled loudly. “Well, you called it, Sherlock. Mycroft wasn’t _quite_ done with Seb and his cohorts. According to _this_ article, it seems that they’ll be lucky to get jobs in the _mail room_.”

 

“Hmph. I fail to understand why _you_ are taking such exception to what they did to _me_ …”

 

“You really can’t understand that, Sherlock? Why I care about what people think of you or how they treat you?”

 

“No, but I…appreciate the sentiment, nonetheless, John,” Sherlock murmured.

 

John looked up to see Sherlock quirking a smile, yet he seemed to _not_ be feeling the same satisfaction as John was. “Sherlock? What’s wrong? I would have thought you’d be ecstatic!”

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he said, “Oh, don’t get me wrong, John, I’m enjoying my little moment of karmic payback, yet, in a way, I can’t help but feel a bit _sorry_ for them.”

 

John started. “ _Come again_?”

 

Those unseeing silver eyes had a thousand yard stare as Sherlock said, “Think about it, John. Seb and his friends probably didn’t even _think_ about what they had done in uni, or else they considered it to be a boyish prank, something far less serious than _I_ regarded it. They went on with their lives, built careers, married, had families—all the things I _didn’t_ do because I was a drug-addicted mess—only to suddenly be thrust into the limelight in the most _unflattering_ way possible, to suffer the loss of everything they had built and, possibly, even costing them their families, so that I could enjoy a bit of satisfaction at their ruin. Perhaps the punishment is out of proportion to the crime…” His eyes were troubled.

 

“Bullshite,” John snapped back. “Since when do _you_ feel sorry for a bully? If he had been caught at the time, he might have been kicked out of uni and had to go into some _other_ field of work. Perhaps he would have _learned_ something about himself and how you can’t treat people badly and expect to suffer no repercussions from it. Instead, _you_ , my darling husband, were traumatized to the point of drugging yourself into oblivion to cope due to their heinous treatment of you, costing you _years_ of your life, your health, and your career as a chemist. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a late-learned lesson to him and all his friends that, hopefully, they will pass on to their _own_ offspring, though I doubt it. Narcissists like them always think it’s someone _else’s_ fault.”

 

“Exactly,” Sherlock sighed. “For all I know, one of them may snap and attempt to do something rash, either to me or to Mycroft. My brother is amply protected. I, on the other hand, couldn’t see them coming…”

 

“That’s what _I’m_ here for, Sherlock,” John stood up tall, discarding the paper on his seat. “ _You_ are the scientist, _I_ am the soldier. Brain and brawn. If one of them comes within eyeshot of this room…”

 

“Calm yourself, John,” Sherlock said, his face now wreathed in smiles. “You are _so_ much more than merely a soldier, or a brawn to my brain. You have the biggest heart in the known world, and I trust you with my life, _husband_. But you _also_ don’t know what any of them _look_ like…”

 

“I’ll have Mycroft get me some recent pictures, just to ease your mind, Sherlock,” John asserted as he took up a position beside the head of Sherlock’s bed and said, softly. “No one is going to hurt you.”

 

Sherlock chuckled. “I don’t anticipate it, no. They were bullies, only brave in numbers. They are _probably_ too ashamed to even _review_ their dubious actions from uni, let alone act on them. But,” he said, softly and with great tenderness, “I do appreciate your efforts to protect me from my enemies, John. If only it could have been as easy to chase away that cold!”

 

“Yeah,” John agreed, ruffling Sherlock’s curls affectionately.

 

“John, we _have_ discussed you messing up my hair…” he said, disapprovingly.

 

“Before you meet a client, Sherlock. Not one around for miles, so I’m free to indulge myself,” he teased as he leaned in to kiss his husband on a prominent cheekbone.

 

“Missed again.”

 

“Deliberate.”

 

Sherlock smiled. “So, what is on the agenda for today, beside Fate making a long-delayed intervention?”

 

John scratched his graying hair. “Well, how about a bath? You haven’t had one in a few days…”

 

“Not like I’m swimming the Thames, John. Still…would _you_ be doing it?” Sherlock asked casually, but John could hear a tiny note of anxiety in that deep voice.

 

“Yeah. I remember what happened the _last_ time; we don’t need a repeat performance. I _said_ I’d take care of you and I will, Sherlock. ‘For better or for worse’, and all that,” John said, trying to take a lighthearted tone.

 

“There is…no _need_ to, John. If you are _here_ while it’s…being done…” His eyes were lowered and turned away in a manner that John found disturbing.

 

“Now, Sherlock, that’s _ridiculous_. You’re my _husband_ …”

 

“A legal farce; you _know_ that, John, all done to circumvent hospital policy,” he spat, his mood suddenly taking a downward turn.

 

John shifted his weight from one foot to another in unrest. He wasn’t quite sure what had brought this on or how to manage it. “All right, spill it, Sherlock. Why the sudden attitude?” he asked, directly and with candor.

 

“If you start doing things like this for me, you will, eventually, start to resent me as a burden. I will require your services night and day, keeping you away from your practice and all other human contact. I will become the one thing I despise; _useless_.” He turned his face away, his expression coldly furious. “Best you cut your losses now, John. Find me a good nursing home and go on with your life.”

 

It was at this point that tears began to leak, quite unwillingly, from those unseeing eyes, and a simple catch of breath betrayed Sherlock’s heart. John reached over and, gently, wiped the tears away, smearing their paths across his cheeks. “Idiot,” he whispered. “I’d been planning on asking you to marry me when I got back from the conference.”

 

Sherlock turned his eyes back in John’s direction. “Really?” he snuffled.

 

John smiled. “Yeah.”

 

“But we hadn’t even…”

 

“We were going to, but you came up with other plans…”

 

“Lucky me,” he sniffed away a rueful chuckle.

 

John stroked his hair. “Look, this may not be _how_ I wanted it to play out, but don’t, for a _moment_ , think that it isn’t what I _wanted_. _That_ would be a mistake, and Sherlock Holmes is _never_ wrong.” He kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “Sorry about that, but I can’t reach your lips.”

 

Sherlock rocked his head back toward John. “Problem solved,” he murmured as John planted his lips on Sherlock’s waiting mouth.

 

“Ahem,” a voice came from the door. John turned around to see Inspector Lestrade leaning casually against the door. “I hate to intrude…”

 

“No trouble, Inspector,” Sherlock responded as John got a wet flannel and wiped all traces of tears from his face. “John was just about to help me freshen up a bit. How can I help Scotland Yard’s finest?”

 

Lestrade grinned. “Buttering me up, eh? Hoping for a juicy murder case?”

 

Cocking his head pensively to one side, Sherlock observed, “Ah, but so much of the fun would be lost, considering I couldn’t visit the crime scene or chase down the villain. But, perhaps you have something of a more…intellectual nature?”

 

“Yeah, I have some cases back at the Yard that you can play with, if you’re interested, but, right now, I’d like to ask you what you know about a Sebastian Wilkes,” Lestrade said, pulling out a notebook and pen from his battered trenchcoat.

 

John and Sherlock’s attention sharpened. “Why, what has happened?” Sherlock asked, his blind eyes fixed on Lestrade’s voice.

 

“Well, seems he’s in lockup right now. Lost the plot last night; attacked some of his co-workers, upended some desks, and then tried to smash open a window and throw himself out. Claims it was all ‘Sherlock’s fault’ when the boys arrived to slap on the cuffs.”

 

“You see, John, _this_ is what I was trying to say…” Sherlock started.

 

“Nonsense, Sherlock. Whatever happened to him was _his own doing_. I forgot to mention that, in the article, it says that there was an investigation into any malfeasance on Seb’s part at the firm, and they found out that he had been dipping his fingers into the till and faking his records for _quite_ some time. His success was all smoke and mirrors. What he did to you in uni was just a _sampling_ of his character. _You_ weren’t responsible for _that_ ,” John attested.

 

Lestrade stared at both of them. “Is there something I should know?”

 

“Only that Sebastian Wilkes got a _very_ public comeuppance for being the shite human being that he is, and he blamed it all on Sherlock instead of his own crap character,” John said, his voice cold and devoid of compassion. He turned to Sherlock and continued, “And I don’t want to hear any more about it from _you_ , Sherlock. He did you more harm than he could _ever_ repair in a lifetime. Five of him couldn’t compare to just _one_ of you!” He crossed his arms, ending the matter.

 

The surprise on Sherlock’s face was a sight to behold as he murmured, “Yes, _doctor_.”

 

John bobbed his head in emphasis. “Good. Anything else, Inspector?”

 

Lestrade shook his head and pursed his lips. “Nope. I think that about covers it. So, no case here, huh?”

 

John shook his head in return. “Nope. Just a pitiful man getting his just desserts and trying to get someone else in trouble in the process. I mean, really, Lestrade—do you think Sherlock could have done _anything_ to him in his current condition?”

 

Lestrade chuckled. “No, I guess not. Actually, this is the longest Sherlock’s been out of trouble in _years_. The Yard is starting to get bored!” He winked. “Glad you’re making progress, Sherlock. I’m sure you’ll be around to bedevil us soon!”

 

“Good bye, Inspector,” Sherlock called after him, then said, in a lower tone, “and thank _you_ , John, for your good sense and perspective.”

 

John sniffed. “Yeah, you feeling sorry for a criminal. Next you’ll be saying Moriarty went bad because he didn’t get a pony for his birthday or some shite like that.” He leaned over and whispered, “Now, about that bath…”


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock suddenly looked uncomfortable. He sniffed lightly and said, “John, I think you should get a nurse. I believe I need…cleaning.” He rolled his eyes and murmured in frustration, “This is _so_ humiliating.”

 

John’s ears perked up. “What is, Sherlock?”

 

“THIS,” he nodded down his inert body. “Being unable to care for myself, even to…” He clamped his lips shut and looked away, his cheeks coloring.

 

John cocked his head in curiosity and sniffed. Yes, it was there. “What, you mean, that you just…”

 

The lips compressed even tighter.

 

John sighed. “It’s not the first time, Sherlock. In fact, I’m _glad_ to know that the opioids haven’t messed with your…”

 

“ _Enough_!” Sherlock snapped, without turning his head. “Please get a nurse _immediately_. The less time I have to lie here like _this_ , the better I’ll like it.”

 

The former army doctor shook his head and cocked a small smile.

 

“It’s not funny,” Sherlock muttered, angrily.

 

John chuckled. “No, Sherlock, it’s _normal_. Of course, for you, normal is a relative term…”

 

“ _Johhhhnnnn_ ,” Sherlock drawled menacingly.

 

“Fine, I’ll go get someone. You prefer a male nurse, I know, but I’ll do what I can,” John replied, stepping quietly out of the room. He went to the deserted nursing station and called out, but there was no reply. Hearing  a vague tussling down the hallway, he went to look. There, in front of the end window, was a patient, acting out, with the entire staff trying to calm him down and put him back into his chair. John shrugged in resignation before returning to Sherlock’s room. “No luck, Sherlock. The entire staff has its hands full with another patient. Looks like it’s up to me…”

 

“NO!” Sherlock yelled, his head snapping back toward John. “It’s _bad enough_ I have to get some _stranger_ to wipe my arse, but _not you_. _NOT YOU_.” His jaw was set and his unseeing eyes blazed.

 

John sighed, rolled his eyes, and said, “Well, _guess what_ , Sherlock, you _don’t_ get a vote this time. There’s _no one else_ and it _needs_ to be done. Besides, _husband_ , I’m a former army doctor, remember? I’ve seen _far_ worse than this in Afghanistan and at St. Barts.” Sherlock opened his mouth to speak and John snapped, “Shut it, you pompous git! Do you think that, because you’re the famous Sherlock Holmes, that your shit doesn’t stink? I’ve had use the loo after _you’ve_ used it; if I can do _that_ , I can do anything. Now, don’t give me any more grief on this subject, _hear_?”

 

Sherlock’s jaw relaxed unexpectedly as he replied, “Yes, _Captain_ Watson.”

 

“Good. I’m going to get some towels and sheets, and _you’re_ going to be a good boy while I clean you up.” John shook his head in disbelief as he left. “Prat.”

 

He searched for the linen cart out into the hall and appropriated some towels and fresh linens. The mayhem down the hall seemed to be settling a bit, but, now, some _other_ patients were demanding attention from the harried staff. John smirked, remembering the bad old days as an intern at St. Barts, and returned to Sherlock’s room,. There, to his surprise, he found a man standing at the foot of Sherlock’s bed, staring down at him, his fists clenched.

 

“Excuse me, sir, may I help you?” John inquired as he set the linens down on a chair.

 

“Who is our visitor, John? I can smell his aftershave all the way over here,” Sherlock remarked.

 

The man stared at Sherlock, not even acknowledging John. “I wanted to see you,” he said, his tone flat but with an undertone of hostility. “I wanted to see the Great Detective, the one who ruined my life and career and made my wife take my kids and leave,” he intoned.

 

Sherlock’s eyes went immediately to the voice. “Ah, you must be one of the men who attacked me in uni. Do you remember _that_ , Mr…”

 

“Garfield. Garfield Pettiford,” the man said. “Yeah, I remember that. It was all a _joke_ , a way to take you _down_ a notch or two. You were always so fucking _smug_ , putting the wind up everyone…”

 

“I think that’s enough, you,” John said, advancing on the man.

 

“No, I don’t think that’s enough at all,” he retorted, without moving.

 

“Attempted sexual assault is a serious charge, Garfield,” Sherlock stated, “As is what you’ve, no doubt, been up to lately. What has it been? Extortion? Bribery? Swiping toilet paper from the ladies’ loo? I wouldn’t put _any_ of it past you. I remember you quite well; you were the one standing _behind_ me, the one who tried to _bugger_ me…”

 

“ _I’m not some bloody homo_!” the man yelled. “Unlike _you_ , _Nancy boy_. Always so _prissy_ about your appearance. So fucking _delicate_ when you picked up glassware in class. I could tell…”

 

“Is that why _I_ could tell that _you_ had buggered your roommate before he ‘unexpectedly’ left uni?” Sherlock shot back pointedly. “It was _obvious_ , yet I had no _hard_ evidence to give to the Dean. You would have been drummed out of school, disgraced; instead, your father threw money at the school and they kept you on. You’re a _predator_ and you _finally_ got what you deserved…”

 

With a snarl, Garfield practically leapt at the helpless Sherlock, intent on getting his hands around that slender, pale neck. Instead, all he did was run directly into John Watson’s blade hand to his windpipe, which effectively shut him down as he stumbled around the room, trying to breath from a partially-collapsed trachea. John then grabbed him by the shoulders and ran him out of the room, head-first into a white-painted brick wall. As the man slid to the floor, unconscious, John yelled out “Someone call the police!” as he ran back in to check on his husband. He found Sherlock with his head cocked, listening avidly.

 

“I may not have been able to _see_ that, but I could tell that it was _quite_ impressive,” he quipped. “Once again, you have proven that you are far more valuable than you _think_ you are, John.”

 

“And you just can’t keep your bloody mouth _shut_ , can you?” John growled, hardly breathing hard at all. “He probably wouldn’t have attacked if you hadn’t egged him on.”

 

Sherlock blinked slowly at John before saying, “An erroneous conclusion, John. He had been lurking outside in the hallway. I smelled his after-shave as soon as you left; it wafted in on your exit breeze. No, he was here to take some semblance of revenge on me, despite the fact I couldn’t _possibly_ have harmed him as I am.” He shook his head. “Damn Mycroft. For _once_ , he didn’t think things through.”

 

“The _hell_ he didn’t,” John shot back, irritated. “He _knew_ I’d be here, that _I’d_ protect you. Bloody bastard.”

 

Sherlock smirked ever-so-slightly. “So, I guess you’ve called Lestrade?”

 

John looked up in surprise. “Ah, no, actually, I asked someone else to do it. Why?”

 

Suddenly serious, Sherlock said, “In that case, John, I think I need to be cleaned up before they arrive.”

 

John frowned. “Why? I mean, Lestrade would understand…”

 

“But the rest _won’t_! John, you can be so _thick,_ sometimes!” Sherlock snapped, obviously discomfited.

 

“What…?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Can’t you _just_ hear it now? ‘Sherlock Holmes was attacked in his hospital room and was so scared he shit himself’. _Not_ the kind of story I want going around the Yard!”

 

“Ohhh,” John nodded as a light went on. “Got it.” He closed the door and, after procuring a basin full of water to Sherlock’s temperature satisfaction, which took several tries, he got to work. After rolling his husband’s unresponsive body over and draping an arm over the safety bar on the other side to secure it, he set to work. “Not too bad. I’ve seen worse. Hell, I’ve been knee-deep in blood, guts, and shit on the battlefield. This is _nothing_ , Sherlock.” He cleaned up his husband and checked for redness or bruising on the pale skin, especially over the bony prominences, where skin was pressed between bone and mattress. “Skin looks good, too. No signs of decubitus ulcer formation. These gel mattresses are a god-send.”

 

Sherlock nodded before saying, “You can…uh…do that later, John. No need to…”

 

John waved his protests aside. “As long as you’re over, I may as well wash your back…”

 

“John, NO! Don’t…”

 

But it was too late. John opened the back of Sherlock’s hospital gown and…

 

“JESUS FUCK, SHERLOCK! WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR BACK!” John cursed loudly, his medically-experienced fingers tracing scar upon scar criss-crossing Sherlock’s fair skin.

 

“I had… meant to… _prepare_ you for that…” Sherlock started, stammering.

 

“WHY THE FUCK DID YOU NOT TELL ME ABOUT THIS?” John demanded, the movement of his fingers becoming more frantic as he investigated the extent of the damage.

 

“BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T CARE!” Sherlock finally burst out, shocking John into momentary silence and stillness. “Because I didn’t want to _bother_ you with something so _trivial_ while you were planning your life with _someone else_!” The words tumbled out, unexpectedly harsh to John’s ears. He backed away, assessing the situation, his left hand shaking uncontrallably.

 

“My God. Sherlock…” John whispered before stepping closer again and pulling the gown across the roadmap of abuse between Sherlock’s shoulders and waist.

 

There was a tentative knock on the door. “Inspector Lestrade, John. May I…”

 

“IN A MOMENT,” he yelled, his voice edged like a knife. He heard footsteps backing away and a voice said, “Uh, okay…”

 

John removed the soiled linens and gently, almost tenderly, lay Sherlock on his back again. Sherlock’s eyes were downcast, and there were traces of moisture around them. John brushed the curls away from his face and Sherlock… _flinched_.

 

John pressed his lips together before saying, “I’m sorry, Sherlock” very, very quietly.

 

Sherlock said nothing, but his expression said _everything_. “Better get rid of the linens and let Lestrade in,” he ground out. “Wouldn’t want to interfere with the investigation.”

 

John winced at the tone. “Yeah,” he agreed, his mind afire with this last revelation. He opened the door and handed the soiled sheets and towels to the nearest nurse, who accepted it dubiously. “Do come in, Lestrade. We’ve been expecting you.” He stood aside and gestured for the detective to enter.

 

Looking between the two, Lestrade asked, “Anything I should know about?”

 

“No,” Sherlock said, flatly.

 

“Oh, uh, okay,” Lestrade flustered. He opened his notepad and asked, “Anyone want to tell me what happened here?” He nodded to the still-unconscious man in the hallway, who was currently be attended to by paramedics and police.

 

“Another one of Sherlock’s tormentors from uni,” John started. “Here to settle a new score. He attacked Sherlock while he was blind and helpless. I defended my husband. Simple as that.”

 

“Nearly broke his neck is what you did, John,” Lestrade countered.

 

John shook his head emphatically. “Not the way I did it. Jarred his brain a bit, but nothing more. You just have to know how to do it, Greg, and _I_ _do_.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if he did it every day, instead of the rather noteworthy exception.

 

“Is _this_ the same vendetta as before, with Wilkes?” Lestrade queried.

 

“If there _is_ a vendetta, Lestrade, it is on _their_ part, not mine,” Sherlock joined in. “My brother decided to right an old wrong and _this_ is the result.”

 

“Right, right. I guess I’ll have to go talk to Mr. Holmes the Elder, then,” Lestrade said, flipping his notepad closed.

 

“Feel free,” Sherlock added, drily. “I doubt you’ll get much out of him. He’s not usually very forthcoming with information regarding his motivations or actions.”

 

Lestrade nodded. “Well, then, I’ll bid you adieu. Try not to crack any more heads, _Doctor_ ,” he smirked as he gave them a facetious salute and left the room.

 

“Yeah, I really have to talk to Mycroft, too, about keeping me in the loop about his government-sanctioned revenge plots in the future,” John griped.

 

“No need. I have no other skeletons in my closet. I don’t even have a _closet_ anymore,” Sherlock quipped, without humor.

 

“Yeah, I don’t believe _that_ for a minute,” John replied as he rejoined his husband at his bedside. “You’ve got more layers than an onion, and you keep them all hidden from me. When is this going to stop, Sherlock?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“The _hell_ you don’t. Your scars, the two years away…what the fuck _happened_?” John demanded.


	12. Chapter 12

“You don’t get the _right_ , after _all this time_ , and _all we’ve been through_ , to just _demand_ answers to questions you never _thought_ were _important enough_ to voice _before_!” Sherlock blazed, his eyes and face turned away from John in a futile attempt to conceal his emotions.

 

John rested his face in his palm for a moment, then said, “Scoot over.”

 

“Not possible.”

 

“Okay, then, _I’ll_ scoot you over,” he said, and repositioned Sherlock to one side of the mattress while he climbed into the other and wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s neck, his hand resting against his husband’s head, where he awkwardly played with the unruly curls.

 

“Why the sudden physical intimacy?” Sherlock asked, suspiciously. “You haven’t done this since before I was brought here.”

 

“With good reason,” John replied, refusing to rise to the bait. He ticked off his fingers. “Up to now, you’ve, one, been on a ventilator; two, had generalized physical pain and numbness from the neck down, and, three, have been, in general, a prickly-arsed bastard. Also, this is _not_ what one’s _doctor_ usually includes in the phrase ‘bedside manner’”

 

“Hmmph,” Sherlock responded, his face still turned away.

 

“I _have_ kissed you and touched you, above the neck, to avoid any discomfort my touch might cause you in the afflicted areas,” John pointed out. “Even the nurses have been careful about that, so don’t blame it on anything but consideration of your physical comfort. However, now that you seem to be in a _lot_ less pain…”

 

“Yes, I am. It’s…quite a relief. In fact, I think that, maybe, we could _decrease_ my pain medication to something a bit less strong. It’s making me groggy now, and I _don’t want_ that. I need to work, John, and the pain meds _prevent_ that.”

 

John nodded. “Okay, I’ll take care of that, but don’t go being a hero and saying, ‘I can take the pain’ if it’s too much, you hear?”

 

A smile touched those full lips and was gone. “I’m no martyr, John. If I need it, I’ll ask for it.”

 

“Good. Now, tell me about those two years away.”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “Not the time.”

 

“No, this is the _perfect_ time,” John corrected him. “We have nothing _but_ time right now, so fill me in. What _happened_ to you, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock swung his head to face John, his eyes far away. “All right, I’ll tell you, but, first; tell me why you never asked me _before_?”

 

John sighed and looked down in self-disappointment. “ _Shit_ …well, fair’s fair, I guess.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Go on…” he said, refusing to let John off the hook.

 

Without looking up, John said, “I guess…I guess I never asked because I was just so _angry_ with you for what you did, for _leaving me behind_ , with that image of you lying on the ground with your head covered in blood and your eyes open and unseeing… _That_ image haunted me, day and night. I saw it in my sleep, Sherlock, and I’d wake up in a cold sweat. It was worse than the war dreams; this was far, far more _personal_ , more _destructive_.” He paused to catch his breath.

 

“Go on,” Sherlock urged, head-butting him gently to continue, like a large cat.

 

“While you were… _dead_ , I grieved for a long time. It never seemed to get better. There are stages to grieving, you know; First comes denial. I saw you everywhere, chased down perfect strangers wearing long coats and wooly hats…it was humiliating. Then came the anger; the realization that you had killed yourself, gone someplace _I_ _couldn’t_ _follow_. I considered following, you know that? Maybe the gun, maybe the rooftop, like you did, maybe in front of a train….”

 

“Why?” Sherlock asked, softly. “We were only _friends_ , John. You made that _quite_ clear. Friends… _recover_. And I’d _hoped_ you would understand when I said it was all a ‘magic trick’…”

 

“Yeah, missed that,” John said before he shot him a look. “You remember the Baskerville case?”

 

“Of course. Can’t forget it, wouldn’t want to,” Sherlock murmured.

 

“Well, a little before that, I met with Irene Adler at the Power Station…”

 

“I know that…”

 

“You _bloody well should_ …you _followed_ me there,” John said, heatedly, before stopping himself and taking a deep breath. “She said…she said that you and I were a couple.”

 

“You denied it,” Sherlock replied, tersely. “’Not actually gay’, I believe was your response.”

 

John closed his eyes before he continued. “Yes. Yes, I _did_ say that, but she…she _knew_. She _fucking_ _knew_ , saw through my bullshit…”

 

Sherlock’s head snapped around. “Bullshit?”

 

“Yeah, bullshit. It was _all_ bullshit, Sherlock. I’ve been bi for as long as I can remember. It confused the _hell_ out of me as a kid. My sister, she tried to tell me…Dad kicked her out of the house and was determined to ‘beat the gay out of me’, as he put it. Never was he prouder of me than when I went into the army. Funny, because that’s where I actually _indulged_ that side of myself the most.”

 

Sherlock was silent, but his sightless silver eyes were pensive.

 

“Anyway, back to Baskerville. After Irene, I did a lot of thinking. It was about then that I realized that you were a part of my life _forever_ , that I _couldn’t_ be without you anymore. I _realized_ , then, that, on some level, I… _loved_ you. That we _were_ a couple, in fact.”

 

Sherlock nestled his head into the crook of John’s neck and said, wistfully, “I wish you’d told me, John. It might have changed _so much_ …”

 

“Yeah,” John nodded. “I know. Here were the two of us, so far into the closet that we’d almost found last year’s coats, groping toward but _still_ missing each other’s hands. I was afraid that _you_ , being the ‘high-functioning sociopath’ you _claimed_ to be, would _reject_ what I had to offer, and that thought almost _killed_ me. In fact, it was even worse _after_ you jumped, because then it became of game of ‘what if?’ I felt like…a _failure_. Like _I_ had failed _you_ , on some level. Like, _if_ I had told you how I felt, would you have found another way? _If_ you had felt how much I loved you, would you have confided in me? You _know_ I would have followed you to hell and back…”

 

“I know,” Sherlock said, softly, cutting off John’s litany of self-doubt. “I didn’t want to _risk_ it. I didn’t want to risk _you_. If you had died because of me, then everything I had put on the line would have been _worthless_.”

 

John let out a long breath. “Yeah. Well, while you were dead, I bargained with God every day, that, if he brought you back to me, I would change. I would hold you, kiss you, tell you how much I loved you, start a whole new life together…and, instead, when you finally _did_ show up with that ridiculous disguise, I greeted you in anger and _attacked_ you; not once, but _several_ times, because I couldn’t see past my own _anger_ and embrace you as I had _wanted_ to. When you told me you had been on a mission for two years and hadn’t even bothered to _contact_ me…”

 

“I told you why, John. Your grief had to be authentic or you would have been killed.”

 

“Yeah, I know that _now_ , but I couldn’t wrap my head around it _then_ , I was _so mad_. I had this idea in my head that you had been off on some _lark_ in a foreign country without me, drinking wine and flirting with other men…God, it burned me up! I never even _thought_ about…”

 

“Too many James Bond films, John,” Sherlock gibed gently. “The _real_ spy world doesn’t look _anything_ like that. It’s an ugly life, and I had to do things I wouldn’t have done normally, but I _always_ kept in mind what the end goal was; to keep _you_ safe and to be able to return home and start a new life with you. Instead…I came back to find that you had moved on without me.” His voice dripped unshed tears.

 

“Yeah, that’s what Moriarty wanted. While you were away dismantling his network, he was playing me here. I would see you on _every_ street corner, turning down some alleyway, in the Tesco, even though I _know_ you hate it there. Then, finally, in one last fling to keep me from killing myself over losing you, he placed Mary in my path—a nice, normal lady who cared about me and with whom I could build a life as different from the life you and I shared as possible. And I _fell_ for it.”

 

“Moriarty’s long game; to burn out my heart, first by breaking it, then by killing _you_ in front of me. It would have _broken_ me, John. He would have won. If Eurus had been a worse shot…” John could have sworn Sherlock’s whole body shuddered, but he passed it off as his imagination. “Anyway, things didn’t work out as Moriarty had intended, and here we are, discussing something we should have settled a long time ago.”

 

John nodded. “Agreed. Now, tell me all about it, Sherlock. Particularly about the scars. I don’t want you to leave _anything_ out. I _need to know_.”

 

“First off, you _do_ know that Mycroft was watching over you the whole time, don’t you? And the Network, as well?” Sherlock asked.

 

John looked mildly surprised. “No, I didn’t…they were _watching_ me?”

 

“Protecting you. Like that time you professed to Ella that you were feeling suicidal. Didn’t you notice that your gun was missing from the drawer?”

 

“Wha…You mean, _they_ took it? I thought I had just misplaced it.”

 

Sherlock smiled up at him. “Nope. They took it and gave it to Mycroft for safe-keeping. And do you remember that time you stepped in front of a Metro bus?”

 

John gaped. “You _knew_ about that?”

 

“I was informed later. The Network had _strict_ instructions that you were to be protected at _all_ costs. That person who jerked you back onto the kerb was one of _them_. Really, John, did you think I would leave you without resources while I was away?” He quirked a smile.

 

John kissed his forehead with enthusiasm. “Have I ever told you how much I adore you, Sherlock Holmes?”

 

With that, Sherlock finally opened up about his exploits in Eastern Europe, leading up to his torture in Serbia and his less-than-triumphant return to London. John listened intently, asking questions whenever Sherlock stumbled or tried to hide something from him. John simply wouldn’t have it; he had to know it _all_.

 

“Okay, you said that you had done some things that you would not have done _normally_.”

 

Sherlock nodded silently.

 

“Like what?” John asked, pointedly.

 

Sherlock was silent.

 

“Was it anything…sexual?” John ventured nervously.

 

Canting his head, Sherlock asked, “Is that of great importance to you, John? Would it, somehow, place qualifications on your emotional regard for me, if it was?”

 

Filling his lungs with air and expelling it forcefully, John replied, “No, but I would be…disappointed.”

 

Eyebrows rose. “In me?”

 

“No. That I wasn’t…aw, _hell_ , this sounds so fucking _shallow_ that I can’t even believe I’m thinking it,” John growled, half to himself.

 

“Go on.” Sherlock nudged.

 

“Well, I wanted…I’d _hoped_ …that I could be…your _first_.”

 

A skeptical smile. “My first.”

 

“Yeah. You see? Shallow. I wanted to be your first. Your _only_ , if we’re going to be honest about it. I wanted…I _want_ you all to _myself_. I can’t _stand_ the idea of anyone even _touching_ you, let alone…” He made a disgusted noise. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. You must think I’m _awful_.”

 

A low laugh rumbled from the man beside him. John looked down to see tears collecting in Sherlock’s eyes as he laughed. “Okay, so what’s so funny? Do I _really_ sound that pitiful?” John groused.

 

“No, not at _all_ ,” Sherlock chortled. “You see, I was referring to some ‘gray’ areas of ethical and moral behavior, but _this_ …!” He burst out with a new wave of laughter. “My God, John, you really are _such_ a romantic!”

 

“All right, all right, no need to rub it in,” John growled as he turned his face away to hide the blush that was creeping into his cheeks. “It really doesn’t matter, Sherlock. I mean, virginity is not a sticking point for me. If it had been, I’d have never gotten laid in uni _or_ the army.”

 

“Oh, my _God_ , John!” Sherlock howled. “Really! This is just _incredibly_ endearing!” He laughed until John had had enough and kissed him proper, just to shut him up. Even then, he _still_ kept bubbling laughter.

 

John pulled Sherlock closer and said, “Yeah, I guess I’m an idiot. It _really_ doesn’t matter that you’re not a virgin…”

 

Another bubble of laughter. “Who said I’m not? _I_ certainly didn’t!”

 

John looked down into the upturned face of a grinning Sherlock. “Wait…”

 

“Ever since we met, John, I’ve been, well…” he dropped his eyes shyly, “ _hoping_ that you… _would_ be my first. And _only_ , as well, if I may add. I guess that makes _me_ something of a romantic, as well.”

 

“Yeah,” John murmured, kissing his husband’s forehead where the curls lay in chaotic splendor.

 

“Missed again, John. You’re really _not_ very good at this, are you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Special Note: As a new graduate nurse years ago, I cared for a doctor who developed Guillan-Barre syndrome post infection, with the same symptoms Sherlock developed. He was told by his doctors to find a new field, that he'd never work as a doctor again. His nurses felt differently. We researched GB and told him he had a 95% chance of recovery with no sequelae, keeping his spirits up as much as we could. When he finally went to a rehab facility, where he rocovered fully, he declared that "It was the nurses who get people well, not the doctors!" You never saw a doctor treat his nurses with so much respect as this man! So, hats off to all the people who keep those seemingly-hopeless patients going!


End file.
